Like Father, Like Daughter
by Kurt
Summary: Ch 23 up! Dr. Lecter's unknown daughter pops up to wreak havoc for Clarice and the GD.
1. Introduction

                Author's note:  After having closed out the Susana series to avoid it becoming The Series That Would Not Die, I found myself wondering about other options for the GD to have a daughter.  (Plus it was incredibly fun to have a female sociopath running around creating mayhem.  Don't look at me like that; I like female sociopaths.  Well, as characters anyway.)  Susana was a next-generation book character, who isn't even born yet in our timeline (she was born in 2004 in that series).  This daughter of Lecter is born earlier; she's part of the here and now.  Also, for what it's worth, this is movie-canon, and Susana was book canon.  (Yes, I'm splitting hairs.)   

                _So here we are with this.  Alice isn't a Susana clone; you'll see.  I also know that Dr. Lecter's downfall in the movie was not quite as it was presented here, but it was necessary to bend a few tiny details for the sake of the story.  _

_April 1980 _

Dr. Hannibal Lecter entered his fine house in the best section of Baltimore and sighed.  Things were _not _going terribly well for him.  Much of his life was going along just _swimmingly.  _He had a thriving psychiatric practice.  He consulted to the FBI occasionally, and was doing so now on the Chesapeake Ripper killings.  The fact that he was the Chesapeake Ripper himself was a fact he chose to keep hidden from Agent Will Graham.  Tomorrow was his dinner party for the Baltimore Philharmonic.  The flautist he had captured was still alive, down in his basement.  Dr. Lecter didn't plan to kill him yet; the meat he planned to serve was best served fresh.  He would slit the man's throat in the early afternoon tomorrow.  That way he'd be done cooking by the time guests arrived.  

No, what Dr. Lecter had were girlfriend problems.  He had been dating a socialite for the past several months.  At the time, she'd seemed pleasant and cultured.  She was fun to be with.  But she had a darker side, Dr. Lecter had discovered.  When angered, she could be unbelievably petty and vindictive.  He'd discovered she was also a charming and accomplished liar.  She was the only person Dr. Lecter knew who was as skilled at manipulation as he was.  In short, she was a wealthy, cunning female sociopath.  

Sociopaths often have problems forming and maintaining relationships.  His relationship with Jane Pierpont had become problematic.  He'd tried to break it off gently, but she was having none of it.  The night before, he had dropped by her place in an attempt to let her down gently.  Without quite realizing it, he had ended up in bed with her.  That annoyed him; it made it harder to do what needed to be done.  

 His telephone rang.  Dr. Lecter was quite happy he had invested in a telephone answering machine.  It saved him the trouble of having to deal with her.  He heard his own cultured voice thanking the caller for calling, and then a beep.  His girlfriend's angry voice spoke. 

"Hannibal!  I _know _you're there.  You are _not _dumping me, Hannibal.  I warn you.  You get on this phone _right now _or you will regret it for the rest of your life.  Do you hear me?"  

Dr. Lecter picked up his Harpy and headed down to his basement, ignoring the voice.  

On the other end of the line, Jane Pierpont shook with fury.  She slammed the phone down.  How…how _dare _he ignore her like this?  Tell her it was _over_?  She would show him.  _No one _did that to her and got away with it.  

She looked at the mirror and observed her own flushed face.  Break up with her, eh?  She'd show him.  She would make him _very very _sorry.  

Hannibal Lecter thought he was _smart.  _He was bright, she'd give him that.  But he wasn't infallible.  Once, before, when things had been good between the two of them, she had woken up in his bed and wanted some wine.  She'd gone down to his wine cellar, meaning to get something for a nightcap.  The wine cellar was on the right side of the stairs as you went down.  On the left… 

She'd been shocked and amazed at what she saw, but she hadn't said anything.  At the time she didn't care; she loved him and if he killed off a few annoying people, so be it.  The good of society mattered not a whit to Jane Pierpont.  But now…_now _it was useful.  

Jane knew better than to call from her own home.  They _said _you couldn't trace a call in less than twenty seconds, but she wasn't sure.  Better to make sure.  She grabbed her car keys and headed down the steps of her own mansion and got behind the wheel of her own car.  

The Baltimore airport was exactly what she needed – people coming in and out all the time, and banks of pay phones available for the use of anyone at all.  She walked up to one and dropped in her money.  She dialed the number she'd found penciled in his Rolodex.  

"FBI," a voice said.  

"Hello," Jane said.  "I need to speak to Agent Graham."

"He's not in the office," the receptionist said.  "He's on vacation with his family." 

Jane frowned.  "Can you take a message for him?" she asked spritely.  Her voice indicated none of her anger.  

"Of course, ma'am," the receptionist said.  "Can I get your name, please?"  

"No," she said.  "This is an anonymous tip.  Have Graham look in Dr. Lecter's basement.  That's Lecter, Hannibal Lecter.  He's consulting on a forensic case with him or something."  She thought to herself and smiled bitterly.  "If he can't get into Dr. Lecter's basement, then tell him to look in the big black book in his office."   

"I'll tell him."  

"Thank you so much," Jane said, and hung up. 

From there, things went more or less as she had hoped.  The receptionist passed the message on to Will Graham when he got back into town.  He was busy and it barely registered.  He had an idea on what the Chesapeake Ripper was doing, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do.  He wanted to talk to Dr. Lecter.  

But later, when Dr. Lecter was getting his coat, his eyes wandered over the book on Dr. Lecter's shelf.  

_If you can't get into the basement, look in the big black book in his office. _Will Graham didn't exactly remember the source of the tip.  Later he would describe it as a tickle.  But he heard that mental voice and he did what it said. 

Jane Pierpont caught it on the news.  She smiled with angry victory to hear that the Chesapeake Ripper had been unmasked.  That would show _Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  _He would spend his life in jail, she thought, and was not in the least bothered that he was confined in a criminal insane asylum instead of prison.  He would be there for life.  She wondered sometimes if he thought of her, and how trying to break it off with her had changed his life forever. 

It wasn't until three weeks later that she found out how Dr. Hannibal Lecter had changed _her_ life forever.  She'd been feeling nauseated and went to her doctor.  Her doctor provided her some unexpected news. 

"You're pregnant, ma'am." 

                _January 2002_

The club was smoky and closing time was near.  The lights were turned down low, so that the customers wouldn't notice the carpet had not been acquainted with a steam cleaner in some time.  It also made the dancers look better.  As the night had gone on, each dancer had gone out for her set, dancing three songs.  Now, small purses were full of one-dollar bills that had been stuffed into G-strings and garters by sweaty, trembling hands. The last few dancers were getting ready to finish; those done with their shifts were changing out of their dainty, sexy costumes into more comfortable jeans and sneakers.  

                Jeannette Baker glanced at herself in the mirror and sighed, brushing her long, straw-blond hair out of her eyes.  Finally, she could go home.  She'd almost made enough to pay off her plastic surgeon.  Getting the implants had _definitely _improved her tips.  She was bringing home a couple hundred a night.  After that, it was all pure profit, baby.  She wanted to be the main attraction at the strip club she worked at, and she was getting there.  She was a tall blonde, and that helped.  She also had implants now, and that helped too.  

                There was a new girl working tonight.  Jeannette wasn't too sure about her.  Of course, most new girls in a strip club had to go through a vetting process more demanding than most sororities to be accepted by their fellow dancers, but there was something about her that freaked Jeannette and the others out.  It wasn't that she was ugly; far from it.  She had dark hair and very pale skin.  Almost like a vampire, Jeannette thought.  But there was something weird in how she acted: cocky, as if this all was a tremendous joke.  She'd done pretty well for her first time out.  Most girls got hinky the first time they stripped in front of an audience.  

                But Jeannette wouldn't have to deal with her again until tomorrow.  For now, she wanted to go home, cook up some breakfast, and get some sleep.  She didn't have to be here until ten tomorrow night.  

                So she packed up her bag containing her costumes, said goodbye to the bouncer and the other dancers, and headed out to her battered Chevy.  Snow was falling and she frowned.  A blast of cold wind hit her in the face.  The back parking lot was a morass of dirty brown snow.  Her car did lousy in the snow.  

                The new girl was walking around a trim, neat little Honda on the other side of the lot with a frown on her face.  She turned and looked calmly at Jeannette.  She walked up to her and raised a hand.  

                "Hey," she hailed.  "Um…my battery is dead.  Could I get a jump start from you?"  

                Up close, she seemed much calmer and less…weird.  Jeannette shrugged.  

                "I don't have jumper cables," she demurred.  "You can ask Tony, he might be able to help you."  

                "I do," the other girl said.  Jeannette pondered on what her name was.  Her stage name was Alicia, but that didn't mean jack.  Jeannette danced under the name Victoria.  

                "I don't know how to jump-start a car," Jeannette said.  

                The other girl slumped as if frustrated.  "I do," she repeated.  "My dad taught me.  It's easy.  I just want to use your battery for a couple of minutes."

                Jeanette sighed, but leaving the other girl stranded in the freezing winter was just mean.  And it was hard to demur without looking bitchy.  She nodded.  

                "Okay, fine," she said.  It took just a moment to pull the car over to the other girl's stranded Honda.  She popped the hood and waited.  The other girl needed a jump, she could figure it out herself.  Or she could ask Tony; he'd offer her another sort of jump if he hadn't already.  

                The other girl busied herself with something, lifting the hoods of both cars and struggling with a set of long cables.  She walked around to the driver's side of the Chevy and made a chopping motion with one hand.  Jeannette sighed and cranked down her window.  

                "Yes?" she said icily.  It had just started to get warm in the damn car.  

                "Kill the motor," the other girl said.  Her tone was surprisingly commanding.  Jeannette raised an eyebrow.  No new girl talked to _her _like that, not at _this _club.  

                But she turned off the ignition.  The other girl put her hand on the open windowsill.  She'd removed her mitten and Jeannette glanced down at the hand.  It looked weird.  A few moments later, she realized why.  The girl had six fingers on her left hand.  Two middle fingers, it looked like.  Jeannette Baker did not know this was the rarest form of polydactyly and did not care to know.  

                _Freak show, _Jeannette said, staring unpleasantly at the hand on her windowsill.  Her lip curled up in distaste.  

                The girl looked a bit embarrassed.  "Looking at my hand?"  she asked.  

                Jeannette sighed.  "That's…well, yeah, that's _really _freaky."   

                "I was born that way," the other girl explained.  "People stare.  All the time."  

                "Well," Jeannette said, "just start your car.  It's freezing."  

                The girl seemed not to hear.  "The weird thing is," she said thoughtfully,  "they _should _concern themselves with the other hand."  

                She leaned in the window then, her right hand moving fast.  The sap in it smacked Jeannette in the temple.  The blonde slumped forward, her eyes dimming.  

                Alice Pierpont grinned cruelly and opened the door.  Of _course _the dumb girl hadn't locked the door.  She shoved Jeannette's limp body aside and got behind the wheel, calmly dropping the car into reverse and backing up to park.  It took only a few minutes to shut the hood of her perfectly functional Honda and her victim's Chevy.  Then she pulled on a hat.  None of the other dancers were out yet.  Good.  At this range they wouldn't be able to tell her from little Jeannette, not with the hat on to conceal her own dark hair.  

                She dropped the car into drive and pulled away.  The bar was in a rather seedy part of town; empty factories were all around.  She pulled up by one and scurried out of the car.  It was two in the morning and there was little traffic.  From her jeans pocket she pulled out a keyring and consulted it carefully.  The correct key was marked with a piece of tape.  She put it in the garage door of the abandoned factory and turned it.  The door rattled up obediently.  

                Back in the car to pull it in.  She'd dump it back at the bar once she was done.  Someone might notice its absence, but the cops would simply write it off to dippy strippers not knowing their ass from their elbow.  Awfully convenient.  

                Jeannette had begun to stir.  She looked up and held up a hand defensively at her tormentor.  Alice leaned back into the car and gave her another whack.  In the dim, guttering light coming in the windows, her eyes reflected redly at her victim.  

                Alice had managed to scarf a key to the place by pretending to be working for a realtor interested in showing the place.  Like anyone wanted a nasty old factory in the middle of inner-city Baltimore.  _She _had use for it, though, but her use would make it harder to sell the place.  Ah well, she wanted a place to work.  

                An observer would have been surprised, watching how easily Alice hauled her victim out of the car.  Jeannette outweighed her and stood a half-head taller, but Alice hauled her out easily with one arm and slung her over her shoulder as easily as if she had been a rag doll.  

                On the cracked concrete floor of the factory was a loop of rope.  Alice dropped her captive on a table she had set up.  A smaller table nearby held her working tools.  Thick ropes run under the table served to provide her ample opportunity to tie down her victim.  Once Jeannette was secure, Alice took a small glass bottle from the smaller table.  Uncapping this provided a stink of ammonia, and Alice frowned. She waved it under the nose of her victim.

                Jeannette coughed and tossed her head.  She stared up at the pale face staring down at her.  A small, wry grin crossed Alice's face.  

                "Good morning, merry sunshine," she said.  Her tone held a hint of amusement.  

                "What…what's happening?" Jeannette asked.  

                "Ah.  What is happening.  Questions, always questions."  Alice's voice turned mocking.  "'What's happening to me?  Why are you doing this to me?' 'What are you going to do with that spiked club'?"  She shook her head.  "We're going to have us a little chat," she said brightly.  

                Jeannette stared at her tormentor and trembled.  

                "For one thing," Alice said, "we're going to talk about feminism.  Do you realize what you're doing stripping for men?  You help to objectify _all _of us women."  She made a moue of distaste and shook her head again.  "You are betraying the sisterhood by letting men stuff dollar bills in your G-string.   You are damaging the female aura by selling yourself so cheap.  Your bountiful female energy is being bottled and sold to men for far too cheap a price, thus committing gender treason.  And you're…oh, hell," she grinned.  "Okay, I admit it.  I'm not really up on the latest feminist-theory hoohah.  But I don't care for stripping.  It _does _cheapen women in the eyes of men.  You do it and so they think we're _all _like that."  

                "No," Jeannette said.  "Please, it's just a job.  I just want the money.  I'm not a hooker."  

                "You're only one step up," Alice allowed.  "C'mon.  Tell me, whatever possessed you to wake up one morning and say, 'I feel like having two big bags of saline shoved in my breasts'?  What's wrong with the way they were?"  

                She grabbed the denim shirt that Jeannette wore and ripped it open.  The dancer's enhanced breasts rose and fell as her breathing turned panicked.  She wore a lacy black bra.  Alice snorted at the other woman's fear.  

                "Are you afraid to show those off?" she asked incredulously.  "Did I not just see you running around doing exactly that for a bunch of strangers?"  

                "You did too," Jeannette said insanely, staring up in walleyed fear.

                Alice smiled coldly.  "Only to pick a victim," she pointed out.  Then her expression turned sardonic again.  

                "Man, I don't know how you walk around with those," she chirped.  "Your back must _kill _you at the end of the night, between the stiletto heels and those."  Alice produced a knife and slit the bra between the cups.  She cut through the shoulder straps and yanked the ruined garment out from under her prisoner.  

                "Those don't even match your size.  Here you are, going for hyper boobs," Alice said, and prodded one with the knife.  Jeannette screamed piercingly.  "They don't look real, though.  They don't even move."  She prodded it again with her finger as if to indicate its lack of motion.   How much did those cost you?"  

                Jeanette trembled and said nothing.  

                "I asked you a question," Alice said delicately, and prodded her again with the knife.  

                "Three grand," Jeanette said, and began to cry.  

                "Three grand.  And how many pairs of stiletto heels do you buy?  How many costumes?  Do you _realize _how much you're spending?  And on what?  Shoes that kill your feet and big bags of saline to shove in your body."  She made a _tch-tch-tch _sound with her tongue.  

                "Please," Jeannette sobbed.  Tears tracked her face.  Alice stared down at her as if she was an interesting specimen pinned and ready for mounting.  "Please, don't kill me, I just dance for a living.  It's just for money.  I'll quit if that's what you want."  

                Alice shook her head.  "It isn't," she said disdainfully.  

                "Then what _do _you want?" Jeannette asked, staring up at her captor.  

                Alice pondered.  

                "My face on the twenty-dollar bill," she said, remaining perfectly deadpan.  

                Jeannette's eyes began to tear up and widen as she realized that the other girl would not be placated.  Alice chuckled.  She walked over to where a CD player sat on the table nearby.  She punched a button on it and a lone acoustic guitar began to play.  Alice's preferred music was that played by chicks with acoustic guitars.  She had no use for classical; it was pretentious.  

                A female voice began to sing.  Calmly, Alice sang along with it for a few bars.  Her voice was a clear, pleasant alto.  It sounded surprisingly normal in the still air of the factory.  

                Halfway through the song, Alice jumped up onto the table.  She dropped two things down on the table on either side of the bound girl.  Jeannette glanced down to see what they were, but could not make them out.  Like a snake's prey, her eyes floated helplessly back to those of her captor's.  Alice sat down chummily on her victim's stomach.  She glanced down at Jeannette's large breasts enough to make the other girl uncomfortable.  Although as heterosexual as her victim, Alice did it because she was amused at her victim's reaction.  

                She opened her mouth and began to sing the next verse of the song.  She liked this song a great deal. And here, the most appropriate verse to what she planned to do.  

                "And I am watching your chest rise and fall, 

                Like the tides of my life, and the rest of it all," 

                In each hand, she grasped a Magnum Tanto knife, made by Cold Steel.  The knife was a mean knife for a mean world; seven and a half inches of Cold Steel's San Mai III custom-made steel, curving gently to a wickedly sharp tanto point.  These knives were made specifically for fighting, and good knives they were for that.  These knives and her hands were old lovers; she had practiced with them for hours each day.  

                "And your bones have been my bedframe

                And your flesh has been my pillow," she continued, lolling comfortably on her victim's abdomen.  

                Alice raised her hands high overhead.  The twin blades glittered, one in each hand.  Her eyes gleamed.  

                "I've been waiting for sleep

                To offer up the deep 

                With both hands," she finished.  

                Both hands came down firmly.  There was a meaty stabbing sound and then a surprising liquid _pop _that she felt rather than heard_.  _She drove the knives more firmly down. Sleep offered up the deep for Jeannette Baker, and did not let her go.  Alice slid off her victim and tilted her head, watching.  The blood seemed quite thin, but then it was mixed with saline, wasn't it?  

                It had gone much easier and much more quietly than she expected.  But it was a start.  Eventually, enough murders would draw the attention of the FBI.  And that was just fine with Alice Pierpont.  

                The battered Honda she'd purchased for cash started right up when she made her way back to the car.  Jeannette's Chevy could rot for all she cared; they'd find it when they found her body.  That probably wouldn't be for a few weeks.  

                She observed her own maroon eyes in the mirror for a moment and grinned.  This was going to be _fun.  _


	2. Legacy

                Clarice Starling sat at her desk and tried to concentrate.  The dull fluorescent light overhead gave her a headache.  After all the years of trying, she'd finally been brought into Behavioral Sciences permanently.   With no Krendler to poison her file, Jack Crawford had finally brought her into the department she had always wanted to be part of.  

                But she was still low man on the totem pole.  This was an elite group of twelve, and she was number twelve.  That was OK; her co-workers mostly respected her.  She knew she'd have to win them over.  That was fine; it was the same for everybody.  Clarice didn't care what obstacles she had to surmount so long as they were equally applied to everyone.

                Even so, she had a certain amount of water carrying to do.  At the 8 AM staff meeting, Crawford had pulled her aside and asked her to meet , she had a feeling it was for some make-work duty.  She went down the subterranean hall and glanced inside.  

                Crawford nodded at her.  "Ah, Starling.  Come on in.  Have a seat."  

                Clarice entered the office and sat down.  Sitting across from her was a young guy.  Real young, Clarice thought.  Like fresh out of the Academy.  It wasn't unheard of for Crawford to tap young talent – her own past showed that.  But he had to be good.  He wore an inexpensive gray suit and seemed embarrassed.    He was tow-headed and handsome in an intellectual sort of way.  He glanced over at her and smiled nervously.  Clarice was reminded of herself, years before, standing in front of Crawford in a new suit and cheap shoes.

                "Clarice," Crawford said.  "How are you?"  

                "Fine," Clarice said, watching the young guy.  He shuffled his feet nervously and looked down.  

                "We've got a new trainee," Crawford said.  "Sort of like with you and Buffalo Bill.  I need someone to show him the ropes."  

                Clarice looked at the kid and tried to take his measure.  This could be pretty lousy, if he was some senator's kid.  But why would a senator's kid want Behavioral Sciences?  You came here because it interested you.  There wasn't much heroism here.  Here were the mindhunters.  

                Crawford smiled like a proud father.  "Clarice Starling, I want you to meet Agent Joshua Graham."  

                Clarice offered her hand and grinned.  Agent Graham put out his own hand gingerly.  Clarice had to grin.  What was he nervous about?  Then she remembered her own first time out with Buffalo Bill, and how she'd nervous around all the experienced people.  Being the new kid on the block was scary. 

                "He's sort of a legacy, I guess you could say," Crawford said  

                "Oh, no," Joshua Graham said.  A line of scarlet began creeping out of his collar up to his face.  "Not really."  

                "Yes, you are," Crawford said.   "Your father did some wonderful things around here."  

                Clarice nodded, comprehending.  "So you're Will Graham's son?"  

                Josh nodded.  

                "Welcome aboard," Clarice said.  She rose and indicated for him to follow her.  

                "C'mon with me, I'll show you how things work around here," she said calmly.   Crawford grinned approvingly.  

                "Thank you, Starling," he said shortly.  "Don't whup him too hard."  

                Starling walked her trainee back to her office.  In the hallway, she glanced over at him and grinned.  

                "So you're Will Graham's son," she said.  "Your dad is pretty well known around here, you know."  She had to be careful.  Will Graham was indeed a legend in Behavioral Sciences.  He was also a drunk in Florida with a face that was hard to look at.  

                Josh thought for a moment.  "I know," he said enigmatically.  He stared around the dark offices, as if pondering.  For a moment Clarice found herself feeling sympathetic towards him:  a young man facing the monsters that had conquered his father.  

                "You interested in Behavioral Sciences as a career, or are you just sort of looking around?" she asked in a friendly manner.  

                "I'm not sure yet," Josh said.  "I guess I just wanted to see it."  

                Clarice nodded.  "Well, you'll see it," she said.  "We're working on a few cases now.  Nothing that interesting.  None of the big boys your dad worked on – Garrett Hobbs, or Francis Dolarhyde."  

                Josh closed his eyes and took a breath.  "Or Hannibal Lecter," he said.  

…

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter liked South America a great deal more than he thought.   Here, it was ridiculously easy to set up identities.  He could simply register as an immigrant, rent a home quite inexpensively, and come back in a few years and request citizenship for that identity.  South American bureaucrats were quite laid-back about this sort of thing.  He now had more passports than he knew what to do with.  It seemed quite amusing to him that he now held no less than five passports from as many countries in as many names.   Sometimes he had trouble keeping track of them all.  

                He maintained homes in Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay, Costa Rica, and Chile.  He preferred Argentina.  It was more European in nature.  There were more of the finer things he preferred.  They were ungodly expensive down here, but that was all right.  He moved between countries as suited his mood.  He did not consider this a nomadic existence; his homes were all exquisitely appointed.  It also suited him to know that if any of his identities were ever discovered, all he needed to do was make the nearest train station and he would be on his way.  

                He lived the life of a wealthy man-about-town.  He had no real cares or worries.  His accounts were denominated in dollars, and the exchange rate transformed him from a well-off man in America to a fabulously wealthy man in South America.  The only thing that would have made his life any better was his Clarice.  

                He was sitting at his breakfast table.  The table was near his terrace, and opening the doors let in the fresh morning sunshine.  His cook was bringing up his breakfast.  An omelette, orange juice, coffee, and toast.  The food was served on fine china.  The coffee was served in a matching cup, and the juice resided in a crystal goblet.  Dr. Lecter thanked the cook kindly and dug in. 

                On the table with him was a copy of the Baltimore _Sun _and the _National Tattler.  _Dr. Lecter was still slightly fond of the American trash tabloid, and there was a newsstand near the airport that carried the _Sun.  _It was a few days old, but better late than never. Dr. Lecter preferred to read it for the society pages more than anything else.  It gave him the opportunity to check in on the people he had once moved and shaken with.  

                Dr. Lecter opened the _Sun _and flipped through the society pages.  His eyes settled on one article.  

                _Edgar Morgan III graduates from Stansfield Academy.  _

Why did that name ring a bell?  He consulted his memory palace.  Edgar Morgan III, an eighteen-year-old snot.  He was in the society pages because…wait a moment.  His parents.  Edgar Morgan II, the head of some business.  A hard-charging CEO, but Dr. Lecter had no reason to know him.   His mother was Jane Pierpont Morgan. Aha, _that _was it.  Dr. Lecter's lips made a moue of distaste.  

                The prior women in Dr. Lecter's life maintained different ranks.  There was still Clarice, who intrigued him long after their meeting.  Most of the women he had maintained relationships with while free in Baltimore meant little to him now.  Jane Pierpont he regarded with distaste.  In truth, there wasn't much difference between the two of them, he thought.  Jane's talent had always been in finding ways to accomplish what she wanted without her fingerprints being involved.  But she could be just as cold, just as vicious, as Dr. Lecter himself.  Hopefully others had raised the boy.  In the good doctor's professional opinion, there were few women less qualified to be mothers than Jane Pierpont.  She cared for no one other than herself; everyone else was simply a pawn for her to move.  

                _Perhaps incarceration was not so bad, _he thought.  _It **did **get me away from Jane.  _

                But he wanted to dismiss thoughts of the past.  He had a new life, now.  Nothing bound him to the United States other than his own past and his own occasional desire to see Clarice Starling again.  

                He got his wish in the _Tattler.  _Page 3 contained an article that he found interesting.  

                _Brave young Fed takes up his father's mantle _read the headline.  There was a photograph of Jack Crawford, Clarice Starling, and a young man who looked vaguely familiar to Dr. Lecter.  He leaned over the paper with an interested sound.  

                _Agent Will Graham was one of the top guns of Behavioral Science in his day.  His capture of the Minnesota Shrike, the Chesapeake Ripper, and the Red Dragon were all chronicled in this paper.  Now, Agent Joshua Graham is hard at work tracking down those who threaten us now.  Agent Clarice Starling, known for the capture of Buffalo Bill, has taken charge of his training.  Criminals and murderers beware.  _

Dr. Lecter took out his Harpy and began to cut out the picture of Clarice Starling.  He didn't particularly mind cutting Jack Crawford out of the picture; he had no reason to want a picture of the craggy-faced chief.  But the young man and Clarice interested him.  Looking at the picture, Dr. Lecter could see resemblances to the young man's father.  

                "Now _this _might be fun," Dr. Lecter mused to himself. 

…

                _Now **this **is going to be fun, _Alice Pierpont thought.  She'd had another idea after catching late-night TV.   She was insomniac at times.   An ad for an annoying lawyer had caught her eye.  The fellow claimed to be able to seek 'cash justice' for victims and urged them to call.  Slip and fall, motorcycle accidents, pedestrian accidents.  The Law Offices of Thomas N. Hale would help them out and get every dime they were entitled to.   

                The Law Offices of Thomas N. Hale consisted of himself and his paralegal.  Both of them were handcuffed and stuffed in the back of Alice's Honda.  She'd kept the car after realizing that none of the police reports on Jeannette's death mentioned the car.  

                Thomas N. Hale himself was a small, mousy man in an expensive gray suit.  He wasn't anything like his commercials.  Then again, Alice thought, being kidnapped by a knife-wielding young girl was likely to make one quiet.  Next to him was his paralegal.  She'd introduced herself as Missy when Alice had dropped by the office, claiming she wanted to talk to the lawyer.   She trembled nervously when Alice leaned into the car.  Blonde and cute, Alice noted.  Probably hired so that the lawyer would have something pleasant to look at when he got to work in the morning.  

                "C'mon," Alice said cheerily.    

                "What are you going to do to us?" Missy asked.  

                Alice pondered.  "I haven't decided yet," she demurred.  "But if you _don't _get out of the car, then what I'll do will probably involve working on that pretty face of yours with a knife.  So how about humoring me?"  She flashed small white teeth in a cruel smile at her victim.   

                Missy's face began to work, but she started to get out of the car.  Alice helped her out first and got her boss.  The car had already been pulled into the factory.  It was a few doors down from where Jeannette had met her end.  Alice hadn't seen anything in the news that indicated Jeannette's body had been found, so she stuck to it.  Once they did find one of her victims, she'd go somewhere else.  But there was something she liked about the factory; the big, dead machines reaching high overhead.  The bluntness of the place, meant only to produce.  This was a place with its mind on its work.  Something in that pleased her.  

                She walked Hale over to where a box stood.  On it lay a topcoat she had purchased in a secondhand store.  She uncuffed Hale long enough to let him put it on, keeping her knife on him at all times.  Then she cuffed him again, bound his feet, and settled a noose around his neck.

"Now stand up straight," she urged.   She'd elected to forego the hangman's noose.  Somewhere she had read that hanging without a noose or a long drop took fifteen minutes.  That, she thought would be more fun.  

                At the same secondhand store she'd been able to find an old-fashioned bouffant gown, and after making sure Hale wasn't going anywhere, she forced Missy to put on the dress.  Then, after blindfolding her, Alice stood and observed her victims.  

                She had two other things for Missy, and she lifted them now.  A set of scales was the first one.  She put the scales in Missy's hand, gently urging the other girl to hold them carefully.  A roll of duct tape served to ensure that the scales would not be dropped.  Alice was displeased with the visual effect of the blob of duct tape that had replaced Missy's left hand, but there were some things she simply could not help.  Next was a sword.  Giving her victim a weapon was not exactly the norm for a serial killer, but it was OK, she thought.  The sword's edge had been blunted.  Another quick wrapping job with the duct tape and she watched the result carefully.  

                Justice and nobility; nobility and justice.  Two concepts she found _quite _amusing.  Hale was trembling as he watched her, his mousy moustache bouncing with fear.  She eyed him carefully and tilted her head.  

                "Do you regret that you have but one life to give for your country?" she asked.  

                Hale simply trembled, unaware of his namesake.  

                Ah, well.  She hooked the box under him with her foot and kicked it out from under him.  The only thing remaining to take up the weight was his neck.  Thomas Hale began to gasp and choke.  An unpleasant gargling sound came from his throat.  His face swiftly began to turn purple.  But she had fifteen minutes yet, and he didn't deserve _that _much of a head start on Missy.

                From a long bag on the floor, Alice withdrew a second sword.  She stood in front of her living Justice statue and pondered for a moment.  She'd always been very strong, far stronger than one might think from a small, thin girl.  But even this would take some work.  

                She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and jammed the sword between Missy's breasts.  Impaling her wasn't the hard part.  The hard part was getting the sword through her back and into the wooden post behind her.  Blood immediately began to well from the wound, and the solid _chunk _of contact meant that the blade had come to a halt.  Missy tried to scream, but managed only a whistling sound.  Alice supposed she had cut a lung.  The woman's hands trembled, and despite the unlovely looks of the duct tape Alice was glad it was there.  She stood watching, her head tilted.  There was no sympathy on her face, only curiosity.  The blood did mar things, but she liked the contrast of red on white.  It started in a lovely blossom around her heart and began to slide slowly down the cloth.  How _entrancing.  _

                Apparently she must have gotten the heart.  Missy died first, slumping back against the post.  Her last breath streamed from her lungs.  Hale lasted longer than his employee had, but eventually he, too, slumped in death.  

                Alice stood alone in the factory and observed what she had done.  She was quite pleased.  But there was one more thing left to do.  She took a glove out of her pocket and slipped it on her left hand.  Getting gloves made was always an unbelievable hassle.  She needed them custom-made for her, as she possessed one more finger than the norm.  

                She pressed her gloved hand carefully against the blood seeping out from the wound.  There wasn't as much as she had thought and it took more time.  Once it was done, she walked over to the table and thought.  Precisely but forcefully, she slammed her hand against the table, leaving a six-fingered, spread handprint on the table.  This had to be made easy for all involved.  

                _Now Clarice Starling will find it, and I know exactly what she'll do, _Alice Pierpont thought.  She stripped off the glove and put it in a plastic bag she'd brought along with her.  She slipped behind the wheel of the Honda and drove to the airport.  She left it there in Long Term Parking, where she customarily left it.  Her own actual car – a black Mustang she liked a great deal – was there waiting for her.  

                On the drive home, she grinned.  Everything was going according to plan.  Now all Clarice had to do was find her work.  


	3. A Killer's Work

                Clarice Starling had hoped that she could introduce her trainee quietly to Behavioral Sciences.  Things had been on the quiet side.  A few killers being tracked, nothing too big.  Nothing like Buffalo Bill or the Red Dragon.  But fate had been unkind.  Baltimore PD had called up asking for help, and boy, this one was a doozy.  

                Her own breath hung misty in the air as she exhaled.  She clutched her coat around her as she examined the factory.  The red lights of police cars parked outside reflected crazily off the windows.  On top of a table was the body of Jeannette Baker.  The cold had preserved her corpse to some extent, but it was still pretty nasty.  Her once-pretty features had turned black.  Mice and rats had come closer to gnaw on her a little.  For a moment, Clarice felt very sorry for her.  The indignity of death, here in this ugly factory.

  Clarice pushed it away and examined the corpse dispassionately.  _Cause of death appears to be two knife wounds, simultaneously plunged into the breasts and pushed through the ribs.  Probably the heart was pierced.  Death wasn't quite instantaneous but would've been quick.  The body's been here for a while.  Notable aroma of decomposition.  _

Next to her, Josh Graham observed the corpse solemnly.  

                "Look at her, Graham," she said.  "Tell me what you see."  

                He paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.  "I think the UNSUB is pretty strong," he said.  "The scene down the street has the woman pierced through with a sword.  Probably male, most serial killers are.  This killer's not too into mutilation, I don't think.  No visible mutilation on this one."  His eyes flicked up for a moment as he thought.  

                "Definitely an organized scene," he said.  "The killer brought both victims here.  I'd say the perp lives in Baltimore.  Either lives around this area or works here, or has in the past.  He knew these factories were abandoned.  Must've been in here before.  He knew what was in here.  Some of the stuff used in the factory was already here – the post at the other scene, the table that she's on.  But the killer brought the weapons actually used in both killings. "  

                Clarice nodded.  Not bad at all for a first start.  He seemed to be taking the horror rather well.  

                "Not bad," she said.  

                "I think the killer may be older," he continued.  "These killings show a lot of self-control.  I'm thinking older, but maybe it could just be someone pretty self-possessed.  Cool, calm, confident.  Neither of these are first killings."  

                Clarice was impressed.  Not bad for a kid fresh out of the Academy, not at all.  

                "Can we check out the other scene?" Josh asked suddenly.  

                "Sure," Clarice returned.  

                It was definitely weird to have two crime scenes literally within walking distance of each other.  The factory in which Jeannette Baker had died was just down the street from the one in which Hale and his paralegal had died.  The two tramped along in the dirty snow coating the sidewalk, their breath pluming in the air.  

                "So what made you think about Behavioral Sciences?" Clarice asked.  

                Josh shrugged.  "I don't know," he said distantly.  "My dad, I guess.  Even though I know I'll always be 'Will Graham's kid' around here."  

                Clarice chuckled and thought of her own father.  "Nah," she said.  "You do know, your dad was a legend around here in his time.  But you'll sink or swim on your own merits, I promise you that. Just work the cases and you'll do fine."  

                A tall, rangy man in a cheap overcoat walked up to them and fell into stride as if they were great buddies.  

                "Hi," he said.  "I'm Jimmy Winfield.  I did the article on you guys last week."  

                Clarice sighed.  Like most FBI agents, she had a love-hate relationship with the press.  But Winfield's article had actually been pretty decent.  They wanted to play up the aspects of Josh Graham coming into his father's department.  Winfield had promised her she'd be portrayed positively and he'd kept that promise.   She didn't want the _Tattler _to start calling her the Death Angel again.  

                "Hi, Mr. Winfield," Clarice said crisply.  

                "So what can you tell me about what's going on?" he asked.  

                "Not much, I'm afraid," she said.  "This has been declared a crime scene.  There seem to have been two murders.  For anything more, you'd have to talk to Lieutenant Friello of the Baltimore Police Department.  He's the point man on the scene."  

                "Is it the work of a serial killer?  C'mon, Starling, I've been good to you.  You can be good to me back." 

                "Mr. Winfield," she said, "I don't really have anything for you right now.  Behavioral Sciences has been called out here to investigate at the request of the Baltimore police department.  That's really all I can tell you at this point."  

                He was polite, but persistent.  "Is it Hannibal Lecter?" he asked immediately.  

                Clarice sighed.  "I don't think so, no.  It doesn't look like his style."  

                "Anything else you can tell me about it?"  

                Clarice shook her head.  "At this point, we're still working."  

                "Look," he said, "listen, I know the _Tattler _has kicked you around in the past, Agent Starling.  I can _promise _you nothing like that will happen again.  But you gotta help me out here."  

                Clarice sighed and put her gloved palms in the air.  

                "Mr. Winfield," she said, "I know you wrote a nice article about us, and I do appreciate that.  But I have a job to do, and I can't feed you details right now.  Once we've had a chance to do our job, I will be _more _than happy to offer you an exclusive interview with as much information as I am allowed to give out.  That's really the best I can offer you right now.  OK?"  

                Winfield thought about it for a moment.  

                "Okay," he said.  "Lemme give you my card.  I'm staying over at the Hilton."  He took a moment to scribble a number on the back of his card with a gold Cross pen and then handed it to her.  

                "Thank you," Clarice said, and urged her trainee on.  

                Ahead was the second scene.  More cruisers pulled up around the door.  Yellow crime-scene tape blocked their path.  A cop in a fur hat enforced the tape's mandate.  Clarice and Josh displayed their FBI credentials and were admitted.  They had to stomp quite animatedly to get all the snow off their shoes before they entered the crime-scene proper.  

                "You better move," the cop said, "they're about to cut the bodies down."  

                They moved and gained a few minutes in which to examine the scene before the bodies were cut down.  Josh stared at the impaled woman and the hanged man.  He crossed around back to examine the post.  The tip of the sword protruded from the back end of the post.  

                "Man, what a sicko," the cop said.  

                "Strong sicko," Josh mused.  "Look at this.  This post is round and almost a foot through.  Killer had to eat his Wheaties in order to do that."  

                Clarice nodded, thinking this kid was going to do just fine.  

                "How tall do you think the killer is?" she asked, testing him.  

                Josh looked blank.  

                "Probably the same height as the victims," he began.  

                Clarice shrugged.  He was close, and this might be her opinion.  

                "I think the killer's shorter, actually," she said.  "Know why?"  

                He shrugged.  That was OK, Clarice thought.  That's what training was for.  

                "The stab wound?" he asked.  

                "That's part of it," Clarice allowed.  "It _looks _pretty straight on, but it's angled juuuuust a little bit up.  See?"   She indicated the angle of attack.  A few other cops nodded.  Clarice continued.  "Also, look at the hanged guy here…do we have a name for this guy?"  

                "Hale," a Baltimore cop supplied.  "Thomas Nathan Hale.  The personal-injury lawyer who advertises on TV."  

                Clarice nodded.  "OK.  Look at Hale.  His feet are just a couple of inches shy of the floor.  Just by a couple of inches.  Hale isn't too tall himself, maybe five-seven or five-eight.  I think the killer was shorter than him and put him on the box just enough to hang.  I think our UNSUB did it that way because if Hale was too high, he'd be out of reach.  I'd say under five-seven."  

                "Is this the same killer?" one of the Baltimore cops asked.  

                Clarice pondered for a moment.  "I'd say yes," she said.  "This killing is rather posed; the other one isn't.  But there's a great deal in common: abandoned factories as murder sites.  The victim is brought to the factory alive and murdered here.  In both cases the murderer pre-selected the victim.  With Hale, the UNSUB could've seen his TV commercials.  As far as Baker…hard to say. Strippers are high-risk victims.  I know you guys know your stuff, you're already checking into her background."  The Baltimore cop smiled approvingly.  "If you come up with anything interesting, can you have the point man on the investigation keep myself and Agent Graham in the loop?"  She offered him her business card.  

                Josh went along with her out to the car.  He seemed to be lost in thought.  

                "C'mon," Clarice said.  "Let's get some breakfast.  I know of a decent place to eat."  For a moment she pondered on that.  She'd just seen three corpses and here she was hungry.  _Boy, am I turning jaded, _she thought.  

                Josh nodded, his eyes filmed over with thought.  

                "Whatcha thinking?" she asked.  

                Josh sighed.  "There's something about the murders.  The double murder occurred later.  There's something about it."  

                "What's that?"  

                "The posing.  Could be indicative of mental illness, but everything else is against that.  I don't think this killer's crazy.  Not in any way we think of someone being crazy, at any rate.  And that's what bugs me."  

                Clarice took a breath.  She'd been thinking the same thing herself.  "So what were you thinking it was?" she asked guardedly.  

                Josh let out a nervous sigh.  

                "Whimsy," he said.  

                …

                _BLOODY FIEND COMMITS BALTIMORE MASSACRE! _ The _Tattler _was as hysterical as it had ever been.  Alice found it amusing.  She was somewhat disappointed that there were no pictures of her work in the trashy tabloid.  Perhaps the cops hadn't let them get any.  Next time she'd have to take a few pictures herself and send them quietly to the _Tattler.  _ 

                Hmmm.  She could have some fun here, though.  She examined the article carefully.  It gleefully told about the murders she'd already committed.  She'd have to get a little closer to Starling.  Starling was her current goal, after all.  She also had the article about Josh Graham arriving at Behavioral Sciences.  She bent over that one and examined it closely.  

                "Well," she said.  "Don't _you _look cute."  

                He was cute, in an intellectual and self-effacing sort of way.  In the picture he looked sort of embarrassed.  A shy boy, she thought.  He might be fun to play with.  Will Graham's son.  She knew who Will Graham was, but had never met him.  The idea of finding old Will occurred to her.  Nah, she could save that for later.  

                Well, she could get Starling's attention and the boy-toy's attention at the same time.  How to do that?  She glanced down at the byline on the article.  The same person had written both articles: James Winfield.  _Wow, _she thought, _what a preppy name for someone working at a trash tabloid like that.  _

Alice Pierpont did not need to work.  Part of her deal with her mother had accomplished that.  There was little love lost between the women, but Jane Pierpont knew that money bought her what she wanted.  She'd offered her daughter a deal:  enough money to live independently in return for leaving her home and never darkening her door again. That had been just fine with Alice. She now had sufficient trust funds to live the rest of her life without needing to work for a living.  This gave her ample free time to plan her hobbies.  

                This ought to get their attention.  She knew just how to do it, too.  Alice sat down and got to work.  

                Chicago Information had a number for the _Tattler's _main office.  Alice called that and got the receptionist.  It was a young woman like herself.  Her voice was brisk and businesslike.   

                "_National Tattler, _this is Kelly, how may I direct your call?"  

                "James Winfield, please," Alice said in just a businesslike tone. 

                "He's not in, would you like his voice mail?"  

                Alice sighed.  "Actually, do you have contact information for him?"  Her voice turned to one of clinical concern.  "This is Jane from Dr. Thurmont's office.  We just got some test results back for him, and we need to talk to him as soon as possible."  

                She could hear the receptionist thinking.  _C'mon, _she thought, _cough up.  _  

                "This _is _a medical thing," she added.  

                "I'm not supposed to," the receptionist said dubiously.  

                "I know," Alice coaxed.  "But it's very important for his health that we speak to him."  

                Another few minutes of silence.  Then the receptionist caved.  

                "Okay," she said.  "He's at the Baltimore Hilton.  Do you want the number?"  

                "Please," Alice said, and grabbed a pen to scribble it down.  The next phone call she made was to the Baltimore Hilton.  The front desk answered and she asked for James Winfield's room.  

                "One moment, ma'am, I'll connect you."  

                There was a moment or two of hold time, and then she heard the phone ring twice.  It was picked up just before the third ring.  

                "Hello," James Winfield's voice boomed in her ear.  

                "Hi," she said cautiously.  "Is this James Winfield?"  

                "Yes, that's me.  Who am I speaking with?"  

                Alice glanced around and tried to envision what she meant to appear as:  a mousy little office drone who wanted to supplement her salary.  

                "Umm…my name doesn't matter," she said.  "I work for the FBI.  I have information you might be interested in.  About the murders in Baltimore."  

                Winfield stopped.  It was _so _easy sometimes.  She'd be able to get to him very easily indeed.  

                "I'm listening," he said.  

                "I can get you copies of the crime scene file," she said.  "Reports, pictures, everything."  

                "What do you want?"  He got right down to business.  She liked that.  

                "Five hundred in cash," she said.  "No questions asked.  I want to meet you tonight at your hotel."  

                Winfield pondered for a moment.  "I'll need to see it first," he said.  

                "You can see it," she promised.  "You'll like it.  I promise." 

                "Tonight at the hotel?"  Winfield said.  She could hear the greed in his voice.  Time to reel him in.

                "Yes," she said.  "The hotel bar, eight PM.  Sit at the bar and have your tie flipped over your shoulder."  

                "How will I know you?"  he asked.  

                "I'll find you," she said.  

                "Fair enough," Winfield said.  "I'll see you at eight, then."  

                "Yup," she said, grinning.  "Remember, no questions asked."  

                It was six.  Just enough time to get dressed and packed and out there.  She knew exactly what she meant to do. 

                Now it was time to go on the prowl.  


	4. Token of Esteem

                Jimmy Winfield adjusted his tie and waited.  The voice on the phone had promised him access to the FBI's records.  She wanted an unbelievably cheap price.  If it was true, it would be ridiculously cheap for what he would get.  It wasn't like that hadn't happened before, though.  He'd heard of the orderlies at the asylum where Hannibal Lecter had once been held.  They'd been willing to sell information and reports for such minor prices it was robbery, when you came down to it.  

                He remembered he had to flip his tie over his shoulder.  Annoying, really.  He threw the rumpled piece of polyester over his shoulder and waited.  To pass the time, he bought a beer and began to nurse it.  

                He checked his watch.  Eight oh two.  She was a bit late.  Ah well, no biggie.  

                A woman entered the bar and appeared to be looking for someone.  She scanned over the men at the bar.  Her manner was pensive and nervous.  She wore a gray suit, a white blouse and pumps.  Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun atop her head.  She wore glasses.  In one hand was a cheap briefcase.  The American Office Worker, in all her mousy glory.  

                Winfield grinned.  She saw his tie and approached him cautiously.  The briefcase remained in her left hand.  Up close, she wasn't bad at all.  Nice legs from what he could see.  Her hair was dark and shiny, seeming almost like a pelt.  Her complexion was very fair, almost like those goth chicks who he saw sometimes.  Pretty cute, but she didn't seem too interested in her appearance.  If she took herself out and made herself up, she could be quite a looker.  He wondered about the mousy ones; they always said those were the hellions once you got them alone.  

                "Hi," he said, grinning at her.  That fair skin accented the color of her hair and lips and eyes.  It seemed the only color in her face.  No, not bad at all, he thought.  

                "Hello," she said.  "Are you Winfield?"  

                He nodded.  

                "I have information for you," she said calmly.  

                "Okay," he said promptly.  "How about a drink?" 

                She nodded her acquiescence.  The bartender approached and she asked for a glass of red wine.  

                "So what do you have for me?" he prompted gently.  

                She sighed.  "I work for the FBI," she said cautiously, as if imparting a great secret.  "I'm a secretary.  I have access to just about everything.  There's a lot about this case that the police aren't saying."  

                He nodded.  This was great.  One of the minions of the FBI.  She'd be able to get him a lot more.  He'd have to be nice to her; she could get him a lot of other stuff.  Cultivating sources invariably paid off.  

                "Can I see it?"  

                She grinned nervously.  "It's not here," she said.  "It's in my car.  Outside.  I…I didn't want to bring it in."  

                Winfield chuckled.  "OK," he said.  "You want to tell me a little about yourself?"  

                She shook her head.  "This is…," she began diffidently.  "This is my first time doing anything like this."  

                "That's fine," he said.  "You know, you've got real pretty eyes."  The line slipped out easily.  He knew women like this.  They were plain, mousy little things.  Give 'em a few compliments and you could have 'em eating out of the palm of your hand. 

                She smiled nervously and looked down.  A big sip of wine fortified her.  

                "This killer," she said in a hushed tone that would attract the attention of no one, "this killer is doing some really bad things.  One victim was hanged, but not with a broken neck.  Took fifteen minutes for him to strangle to death.  Another was impaled with a sword."  

                "Nasty," he said.  "You got pictures of that?"  

                She nodded.  

                When they finished their respective drinks, she stood up.   

                "We ought to go now," she said.  

                "If that's what you'd prefer," Winfield said, smiling pleasantly at her.  

                In the parking lot, she walked up to a dark van.  That surprised Winfield; didn't seem like the kind of car she would drive.  Her pumps clattered over the asphalt and then echoed as she jumped up in the back of the van.  She gestured for him to follow.  Once he did, she slammed the doors shut.  It amused him; she still thought this had to be so secret.  No one in her employer was looking; he could have told her _that.  _She indicated a plastic crate with several thick manila folders packed therein.  

                Winfield opened one.  Written across the first paper inside it was the word _Gotcha.  _

"What the hell?" he asked.  

                Then the blackjack struck him hard at the base of his skull, and he was falling forward.  He caught a confused glance of a grinning pale face, and then another blow to the base of his skull sent him into the black.  He didn't feel his hands dragged behind his back or the gag stuffed into his mouth.  Nor did he hear the engine start.  

                When he awoke, it was somewhere dark.  He sat up and found he could do that.  He stood up and found abruptly that he couldn't.  His head struck something heavy and metal and he rubbed at it, cursing.  

                Looking around the room didn't make him hopeful.  He was stripped to his underwear.  He was also in a cage.  It was about seven feet long, four feet wide, and five feet tall.  The bars were thick and the door secured by a thick lock.  He seemed to be in a basement; the only light came from a bulb overhead and whatever light escaped the thick curtains over the windows.  

                He banged on the bars a few times.  

                "Hey!" he yelled.  "Hey, what the hell is going on here?"  

                He heard footsteps slow and careful on the stairs, and then the secretary chick was standing in front of his cage.  She looked different now.  The plain-Jane suit had been swapped out for a black dress that reached to her ankles and puffed out around her.  Looked Victorian or something.  She wore black granny boots.    

                But her entire manner was different now, and that was scarier.  Her eyes gleamed at him.  A wide, open grin crossed her face, as if she was absolutely _delighted _with how things were going.   In the bar, she'd acted like a nervous, repressed little woman.  Now, her hands were on her hips.  She took big strides.  The goth-girl getup aside, she was confident as all hell and not afraid of him in the least.   

                She was crazier than a shithouse rat.  And she had him right where she wanted him.  

                "Hello, _Jimmy," _she said.  

                "Hey," he said nervously.  "Look…what…what are you gonna do with me?"  

                Her head tilted at him and that wide, moony grin got wider, displaying her teeth.  

                "What am I going to do with you?" she asked, as if the question was quite unreasonable.  "Well, I want you to tell me a few things.  Then I have a few other things I want you to do for me, and then…then I'll let you go."  

                He eyed her nervously for a moment or two.  

                "What did you want to know?" he said.  

                She pulled a chair up by his cage and sat down companionably.  

                "Tell me about…Clarice Starling," she said eagerly.   "And Josh Graham."  

                He could feel sweat on his naked skin.  His heart began to race.  What the hell did she think, that he was an expert on Starling or something?  

                "I…I don't have much information I can give you," he said.  

                Alice Pierpont looked down and made a moue of disappointment.  "Then I'll be upset with you," she informed him.  "And when I get upset with someone, I tend to do things that I end up regretting later.  Things with pliers…blowtorches…that sort of thing.  I tell you, I just get carried away _so _easily sometimes."  Her face hardened into a crueler, less amused expression.  Next to her chair was a box, and she removed a set of pliers and a blowtorch from it and held them in her lap, as if to indicate she could make good on her threat.  "So think of something, buddy."  

                  "She's…she's an FBI agent," Winfield whispered.  The acidic scent of his own fear-sweat rose in his nostrils.  

                Alice rolled her eyes and she clacked the metal jaws of the pliers together.  "Tell me something I _don't _know."  

                "She's working the killings in Baltimore," he continued.  

                "Who's her partner there?"  Alice asked.

                "The young guy?  Graham, I guess.  He didn't introduce himself."  

                "The young man you wrote an article about."  Alice observed.  

                "Yeah, that's him," Winfield whispered.  

                "He's sort of cute," Alice said thoughtfully.  "Do you think so?"  

                James Winfield grasped the bars and stared out at her with wide eyes.  "I…I don't know, I'm a guy."  

                "Back to Starling," Alice said.  "What's she doing?"  

                "Investigating," he said.  "She won't talk to me."  A look of sick inventiveness crossed his face.  "But you know…she promised me an exclusive interview.  If you let me go, I could find out more stuff and tell you.  Listen…anything I could tell you about Starling is stuff you could find out yourself.  I _don't _know her.  Maybe you thought I did from the _Tattler _article.  But, I don't."

                "Hmmm," Alice Pierpont said thoughtfully.  "Then what use _are _you to me?"  

                "Money!" he said.  "The _Tattler _would pay to get me back.  A lot.  And I could tell your story, if you wanted."  

                "My story."  Alice sounded sourly amused.  "I don't think you have the time.  Now, then, if you can't give me information about Clarice I want you to give me your hands."  

                He pulled his arms in against his bare stomach and trembled.  "Why?" he asked.  

                Alice pondered.  "Because," she said delicately, "if you don't, then I'll assume you're more interested in playing Blowtorch Tag."  So saying, she took out a book of matches.  Winfield shuddered and stuck his hands out through the bars.  Quite calmly, Alice put the matches down and locked a pair of handcuffs on his wrists through the bars.

                "Okay," Alice said, and clapped her hands like a schoolteacher.  "Was that so bad?"  

                Winfield shook his head nervously, a sick look of dread on his face.  

                "This will be," Alice promised.  Her left hand clamped down on his right with amazing strength.  He tried to pull his hands back, but the cuffs stopped him.  Her right hand grabbed something by her feet and came up with it.  

                When Winfield saw the hacksaw, he began to scream.  Still, it was all over in a few minutes.  The saw cut through flesh quite easily, and even the bone yielded to the toothed blade.  Alice was much stronger than she looked, and there was a certain pleasure she took in feeling her blade force through the bones of his wrist.  Blood and small white flecks of bone sprayed up as she worked.  Once she'd severed his hand just above the wrist, he managed to get the cuffs off, but he let her put a tourniquet on it.  He stared back at her in terror and pain.  Small dots of blood spotted her face and clothes.  

                "I'll just take out the trash," she said, and dropped his hand in a nearby bucket as if it were a dead tarantula.  She was saving it for later. Alice decided to show the guy some mercy and tossed him a couple of Vicodin tablets from when she'd had shoulder surgery a year ago.  He took them, whimpering, and dropped them in his mouth with his remaining hand.  

                Alice rose and walked over to another bucket.  It reeked strongly of gasoline.  Next to it was a large bottle of laundry detergent.  While Winfield got back to himself, whimpering and crying and holding his stump, she poured the detergent carefully into the bucket and began to stir it with a wooden spoon.  In the black dress, she looked like nothing so much as a latter-day witch bent over her cauldron.  

                "Now," Alice said, and handed him a sheet of paper.  From behind her she produced a tape recorder.  "I have some dictating for you to do.  After that…I'll let you go."  

                …

                Clarice Starling sat in the living room of her side of the duplex and sighed.  'Delia was curled up on her couch.  A few months ago, Clarice had splurged on a big-screen TV, and so after-dinner TV often occurred on her side.  'Delia liked to follow her college's football team.  

                "Man," Clarice said.  "I'm hoping this isn't the same killer who did both of my Baltimore cases."  

                'Delia, quite content from her place on the sofa, glanced over.  "Huh?"  

                "These two Baltimore cases," Clarice grumbled.  "There's a lot of similarity.  But if the killer's going from _this," _she held up the photos from the Baker scene, "to _this," _holding up the photos of the Hale scene, "in one killing…then we're gonna have a bloodbath on our hands.  This killer's pretty ballsy, coming right back to the scene."  She shivered.  "This is gonna be a big one, I think."  

                "What did Graham's kid think?" Ardelia asked.  

                "Josh?  He thought it was one killer."  

                "What did you think of him?"  

                "Nice kid," Clarice said.  "Kind of shy.  He's sort of permanently embarrassed because of his dad and all."  

                "Is he cute?"  Ardelia's tone became a bit more lascivious.  

                Clarice's mouth opened in an O of surprise.  "Ar-_delia!" _

Ardelia was unrepentant.  "What?"  

                "He's a _kid."  _

"No, he's not," Ardelia said.  "He's an adult."  

                "I was a high school sophomore when he was _born_," Clarice said.  

                Still unrepentant, Ardelia grinned.  "So?  He's a big boy now."  

                "I am _not _cradle-robbing like that."  Enough of Clarice's Lutheran upbringing remained to be shocked at the idea.  

                "They say those young guys can last a long, long time," Ardelia observed pointedly, a saucy smile coming to her lips.   She enjoyed getting Clarice's goat once in a while, and she seemed to enjoy doing it now.  "They're _fun _when you get to be our age.  They can go _all night._" 

                "I cannot _believe _you," Clarice accused.  "You filthy-minded--," 

                A metallic slam interrupted her.  She stood up suddenly, looking around.  For some reason, she had the idea that something was wrong.  

                "What was that?"  

                "Probably a neighbor," Ardelia said.  

                Clarice wasn't sure.  She began to walk towards the front of the house.  Then she saw the orange glow of leaping flames and began to run.  Her big .45 was comforting in her hand; she'd drawn it without thinking.  She opened up her front door and then stopped cold, her jaw dropped in sheer horror.  

                A flaming lump lay on Clarice Starling's front porch. It had the form of a man, covered by leaping flames.  It was screaming.  In the midst of the flames, she could make out a screaming, blackening face.  But it was _alive.  _Its eyes were filmed over with flames and smoke.  It didn't seem to know she was there. But it was alive, humping and writhing and screaming on her porch.  

                After a moment, Clarice's paralysis broke.  She put down the gun and ran out a few steps into her yard.  It had snowed recently, and Clarice grabbed up double handfuls of snow and threw them on the figure, trying in vain to put out the fire.  There were footprints leading from her porch down to the sidewalk, but she paid them no heed.  

                The figure stopped moving, but Clarice carried on.  'Delia had followed her in and stood there in horror for a moment.  

                "Call 911!" Clarice screamed.  "Then get the fire extinguisher from the kitchen!"  

                Ardelia nodded and sprinted for the phone. A few minutes later she was back, a small red cylinder in her hands.  She pulled the pin and squeezed the trigger.  A white cloud came out of the end of the cylinder and enveloped the figure.  

                Clarice stopped trying to pile snow on the unfortunate on her porch and stood there for a moment, panting.  Adrenaline raised her heart rate and made her limbs thrum with energy.  

                "911 is on its way," Ardelia said in a toneless voice.  "Jesus Christ, who would _do _something like this?"  

                Clarice stared into the corner of her porch.  She didn't answer Ardelia at first.  She pointed at the object in the corner.  Both women stared at it.  

                A severed hand lay in the corner of the porch.  It was unburned and pristine.  A glance at the figure indicated that it was probably part of the victim on the porch.  It held a few objects out as if offering them to Clarice.  A few gobbets of flesh trailed back from where it had been severed above the wrist.  

                One was a cassette tape.  The other was a rectangular white object.  A business card.  Clarice squatted down and stared at it in horror.  A business card.  

                One side read JAMES WINFIELD, NATIONAL TATTLER.  She had an identical one in her jacket pocket.  On the other, she could see handwriting.   

                The lab would be mad at her.  The lab could damn well deal.  Some psycho had just made reporter _flambé _on her front porch.  She plucked the business card from the severed hand's grip and turned it over.  In a half-feminine angular script, it read: 

                _Hello, Clarice.  _

_                I thought I'd save you some time and drop this one right off on your doorstep.  Besides, you're on to my use of factories as killing grounds.  Less travel time that way.  Besides, it's cold outside – this might keep you warm._

_  I'll see you…very soon.  _

Clarice put the card back in the severed hand as if declining the invitation.   She drew her .45 and held it in her shaking hand.  She sat down, her back against the side of the house, and waited.  The figure next to her let out a choked groan.  

 In the distance, sirens blared and red lights began to bloom against the darkness.


	5. A New Twist

                Clarice Starling sat on her couch.  Uniformed police officers and FBI agents in suits thronged the duplex. It was not every day that someone dropped off a flaming _Tattler _reporter on the porch of an FBI agent.  She could hear the buzz of metallic voices on police radios.  The squeak and rattle of a gurney as the ambulance crew brought it to the unfortunate man on her porch.  Amazingly, he was still alive.  

                Jack Crawford stood in the living room of her duplex, watching her carefully.  She found herself feeling like a little girl who had somehow displeased her daddy.  She swallowed nervously.  

                "Starling," Crawford said calmly.  "How are you holding up?"  

                "I'm OK, sir," she said.  "I guess.  I mean, it's not every day something like this happens to me."  She shook her head slowly.  

                Crawford sat down on the chair across from her.  His tone was calm and paternal.  

                "All these guys have been treating you like a witness," he said.  "You know your stuff.  What does this tell you?  Who do you think did this?"  

                Clarice adopted a slightly helpless expression and shrugged.  "I…I don't know," she admitted.  "I have no idea, really.  I'm not working anything that high profile.  I haven't been in the press.  Even the murder itself is more like that guy with Graham and the Red Dragon killer."  She snapped her fingers.  "I'm blanking on his name."  

                "Lounds," Crawford supplied.  His eyes shifted at the memory.  Clarice hadn't seen it.  He had.  He wished he hadn't.  

                "Except there's some stuff that's different," Clarice continued.  "The severed hand and the business card.  That's odd."  

                Hand.  That made her think of the second murder scene.  But it was hard to quantify.  Having flaming reporters dropped on your porch by parties unknown would do that to you.   She found it hard to think.  

                She glanced over to see Josh Graham standing in her doorway.  He looked a bit shy and shamefaced.  He came up to her calmly and stared at her and Crawford as if cowed by them.  

                "Wow," he said.  "I heard about it on the news.  I had something I thought of later.  Didn't realize it until now.  I guess it's not a good time."  

                Clarice sighed.  "It's OK, Josh," she said.  "Don't worry about it.  I'm OK.  What did you have?"  

                He slid a photograph out from under his jacket.  "This," he said.  "Baltimore PD took a picture of it at the scene."  He handed the picture to Clarice.  It was a picture of a bloody handprint on the table at the second murder scene.  Clarice frowned.  As soon as she saw it, he vocalized it.  

                "A handprint," he explained.  "With six fingers, look at it.  No prints to be seen.  Probably the killer wore gloves.  But that was _staged, Starling.  Our killer meant for us to find it."  _

                A minor rill of fear ran through Clarice's stomach.  A killer with six fingers on his left hand?  There was only one current serial killer she knew like that.  

                "Dr. Lecter," she whispered.  "No, wait.  Dr. Lecter's extra finger was removed.  We know that from the X ray we got."  Her head tilted.  "Could this be faked?"  

                Josh shrugged.  

                "Call Baltimore PD and tell them to get that, if they haven't already," Clarice directed.  "Have them saw it out if they have to.  If they've got it, have them send it to the FBI labs."   

                Crawford grinned.  "Nice work," he said.  "Still, if we're looking for a six-fingered killer that gives us something big to work with.  We can comb down the list easy.  

                Clarice sighed.  "It might be faked," she repeated.  "With a severed finger or something."  

                Josh's face tightened with distaste.  Even the idea that Hannibal Lecter might be trooping around was frightening for him.  He'd been very young when his father had almost met his end at Dr. Lecter's hands.  The FBI agent blinked his eyes and remembered being very small, his hand held in his mother's, solemnly watching his father in the bed.  All the tubes running out of him.  How pained his smile had been, and how weak his grasp when he held his son's small hand.  _It's OK, sport…Daddy was arresting a bad man and the bad man hurt Daddy…but it'll all be okay. _

It hadn't ever been okay.  He thought of being in Francis Dolarhyde's grasp, a shard of glass pressing his throat.  The fat drop of blood growing at its tip.  His father, again:  _Filthy little beast!  Worthless!   _Later, his father had taken him aside and assured him that he had only said it to make the bad man stop.  Josh had believed him, and he didn't hold anything against his father for that.  Now, an agent himself, he understood exactly what his father had done.  

                And now, he thought, he knew exactly why his father always turned slightly pale whenever Hannibal Lecter's picture appeared in the paper.  

                Another agent muscled through the crowd up to where they stood.  

                "The guy on your porch has been tentatively ID'ed," he said.  "They had to use his teeth to do it.  Fingerprints are burned off, and it wasn't like he had any ID.  But we're pretty sure he's James Winfield of the _Tattler."  _

                Clarice glanced up.  She'd just seen him today.  Sometime between then and now, someone had arrowed in on him and taken him out.  That was frightening.  For a moment, she glanced out her window.  Was a killer watching her now?  

                She got up and stretched.  

                "Gentlemen, I'm gonna change," she said.  "Let's go to the hospital and see if we can find anything.  Maybe Mr. Winfield can tell us something about who did this to him."

…

                Alice Pierpont was quite pleased with herself.  By now, she thought, Starling ought to be scared.  She didn't know who Alice was, but she knew a killer had her in her sights.  She knew that she was being watched.  Next would come a private contact.  Over the phone, Alice thought, that would work best.  She would have liked very much to get an electronic voice changer to make her voice sound like Dr. Lecter's, but she didn't own one and didn't know if one would do that, anyway.  

                She was not expecting the knock at the door when it came.  She lived alone, and had since she'd graduated from college a few months ago.  When she'd been formally disowned from the family.  

                A pounding came at her door.  Alice's eyes narrowed.  She had her twin Tanto knives in a bag by the hallway, and she could get to them quickly.  She didn't own a gun.  Guns were for cheaters.  It was vastly more _fun to handle things herself.  _

                It occurred to her that it might be the police.  She doubted that it was.  The Mustang was the only vehicle she had in her own name.  The van she'd used to ferry Winfield hither and yon was registered in the name of a shell corporation she had set up.  Even so, just in case, she'd gone to the airport and switched plates with a car there while she did the job.  She'd been careful in dropping off Winfield at Starling's place.  Learning to create an improvised fuse was not terribly difficult, even these days.  By the time old Jimmy had burst into flames, she'd run halfway up the street and gotten in the van.   She'd made it back to the airport and switched plates back.  The van itself she parked near the airport in a parking lot there.  

                The man standing on her doorstep was not the police, though.  She glanced out the peephole at him and raised an eyebrow in surprise.  The bolts on the door snapped shut and she opened the door, admitting him.  

                He was older, perhaps fifty or so.  His hair was gray, but his face was not afflicted with too many wrinkles.  His skin was bronzed even in this cold weather; the results of a tanning booth.  He smiled at her with capped teeth and entered the house.  

                "Hello, Alice," he said calmly.  

                Alice's face was calm and distant.  "Mr. Morgan," she said dispassionately.  

                He seemed a bit wounded.  "You _could call me Dad, you know."  _

                Alice remained distant.  "I suppose I could," she said frostily.  "But after all, as Mother was ever so wont to remind me, you're _not my father."  _

                Edgar Morgan II sighed.  He was a wealthy man, accustomed to getting what he wanted.  He had not been born wealthy, but had earned his way to the head of a major corporation through hard work.  His socialite trophy wife had come with a surprising little extra, namely the young stepdaughter who eyed him so coldly now.  

                "No," he admitted.  "I'm not.  But I _did _pay your way through boarding school and I _did send you to college.  So how about cutting me a little slack, Alice?  I need to talk to you."  _

                "I let you in," Alice pointed out.  "Here.  You may hang your coat on the hook, there.  Come in the kitchen; I have some coffee ready."  

                She walked into the kitchen briskly, leaving him to catch up.  After a moment, he did.  His stride matched her own.  Once in the kitchen, she poured two cups of coffee and handed one to him.  She sat down at her kitchen table and wordlessly eyed him.  

                Edgar Morgan sat down at the table and sipped the coffee.   His eyes closed in pleasure.  

                "It's good to see you, Alice," he said.  "It's been a while."  

                "Of course it has," Alice said distantly.  "As you may recall, when I graduated college, Mother told me that it was finally time to get rid of me.  If I left quietly, without talking to the press, I'd be adequately compensated.   If not, she'd see me in prison or a mental institution, but I would be going either way.  I elected to take the money; I'm no fool.  Dear Mother _did _slap me in Juvie for six months once, after all.  So I took your money, of course.  Being free of the hateful bitch was worth it."  

                Morgan sighed.  "Alice…your mother is having some issues.  Don't talk about her like that."  

                "Why not?" Alice asked, and her eyes did not waver off her stepfather's.  "She _is _a hateful bitch.  And a sociopath.  She cares only about herself and always has.  You've merely been a means of getting the respect and adulation she believes to be her due."  

                "Alice," Morgan said helplessly.  

                "And she's fucking the pool man," Alice went on blithely, as if he had not said anything.  "But then again, you've been sleeping with your secretaries since I was six, so I guess that evens out."  

                Morgan slammed his hand on the table.  "Alice, _I have been fair to you and I didn't come here to be abused by you."  _

                "Then why _did _you come?" Alice asked, meeting his steel with her own.  "Like it or not, this is _my _house, and I am now independently wealthy.  Whether or not the money was yours is no longer relevant.  You and Mother gave it to me to buy my silence.  You got that.  You have no more claims on me than from anyone else you do business with.  And I haven't said anything that isn't the truth."  

                Edgar Morgan sighed.  "Well, can't we at least be friendly with each other?  Why does it have to always be this way?"  

                Alice shrugged.  "Typically," she said, "when one is told 'You will get out of our house by the end of the week.  If you go quietly we'll give you money; otherwise we'll have you arrested or committed', one no longer feels terribly friendly towards those that say that.  Especially when they _claim _to be one's family."  

                Morgan displayed his palms.  "Okay.  Fine.  Your mom was wrong to do that.  She's…she's got issues.  You still could be nice."  

                "I could," Alice agreed.  "But I won't."  

                "So, what then?" Morgan asked.  "I can't even talk to you?  I wasn't ever as cruel to you as your mom was."  

                "No," Alice agreed, "you were busy at work.  And having affairs with your leggy blonde secretaries."  

                "Could you stop with the taunts?"  Morgan said.  "I'm sorry you were hurt.  Your mother was wrong.  Is that what you want?  You want me to admit it?  Fine.  What your mother did was hateful and wrong.  On her behalf, _I _apologize." He wasn't pleading, but it was close.  Edgar Morgan prided himself on being the consummate dealmaker.  He'd dealt with people who were angry before.  Sometimes all you had to do was duck your head and take a few shots.  Most people would quit it once you'd showed the back of your neck enough.  Then you could get down to business.

                "Alice, your mom has some problems, and she resents you, and we're…we're working on it.  She's seeing a therapist."  

                "Antisocial personality disorder doesn't respond to therapy," Alice said coldly.  "Their prognosis is extremely poor.  You should read about it.  I have.   But all right, I can see you can't admit you married a sociopath.  What do you want, Mr. Morgan?"  

                Morgan sipped the coffee again.  

                "I have a problem, Alice, and I think you might be able to help me with it."  

                Alice tilted her head and watched him.  "What sort of problem?"  she asked.  

                "A family problem."  

                Alice let out a sardonic chuckle.  "I guess I'm puzzled why you think the outcast of the family would _want to help with a family problem."  _

                Edgar Morgan displayed open palms to his stepdaughter, signaling his surrender.  

                "Can I finish?" he asked.  "Please?"  

                Alice crossed her arms at him, but said nothing.  

                "It's Eddie," he said.  

                "Eddie."  Alice spoke the name with infinite coldness, as if she and Edgar Morgan III had not been conceived in the same womb.  

                "Yes."  

                Alice chuckled.  "What's he done now?"  

                Morgan let out breath he'd been holding in.  

                "The story is…," he began.  "There's this girl, you see, and she's _claiming _that…," he trailed off.  

                "Eddie raped a girl, did he?"  

                "No!"  Edgar Morgan held up his hands.  "No, no.  She's _saying _he did.  Eddie says it was consensual."  

                Alice shrugged.  "So then there must be proof," she said.  "You're a savvy man; you wouldn't even be here if you couldn't squash it yourself.  These days, DNA tests will prove his innocence…_or his guilt.  You wouldn't be slumming with me if you didn't have a losing hand.  So tell me true, Mr. Morgan.  Eddie raped a girl and she went to the police, and they've got his DNA, don't they?   And for some reason you're not able to protect him as you have in the past.  Either you can't keep it out of the press, or when she presented at the ER the evidence was obvious that it wasn't consensual.  Was it bruises?  Or was it GHB?"  _

                Edgar Morgan gripped the cup and tensed.  There were two things about his stepdaughter he had learned when she was a young girl:  she was perceptive and absolutely merciless.  He knew Jane had been completely psycho when it came to her daughter.  And Eddie…well, Alice wasn't terribly sympathetic to her younger brother.  

                His silence was all the answer she needed.  Edgar Morgan II sat in his stepdaughter's kitchen, completely unaware that he was directly over the cage in which she had confined James Winfield before killing him.  Alice emitted cold, mocking laughter. 

                "I don't know _what _you expect from me," she said.  "After all, Eddie tried to sneak into my bed when he was ten.  That's what you slammed me in juvenile hall for."  

                "You broke his arm in two places," Edgar Morgan offered.  

                "Did you ever wonder what he was doing in my bed?" Alice asked, and her eyes burned with anger.    

                "I…well…you _attacked _him."  

                "Self-defense," Alice said promptly.  "But never mind, Mr. Morgan.  Don't count on warm family relations to get you through this.  Tell me what you want, and I'll tell you if I'll do it or not and if so, what price I will demand."  

                Morgan sighed. 

                "Alice, I need…I need an alibi witness for Eddie.  Someone who can help him out of this.  If you say that you were out with them, maybe.  Say that _she _took the drugs of her own free will.  We need to cast a little doubt."  

                Alice Pierpont stared at her stepfather as if he was some strange species of dung beetle.  

                "Alice, he's only eighteen.  He's just a kid.  Even if I can keep him out of prison, he… he'll have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life.  The DA…the DA isn't willing to deal."  

                Alice shook her head resolutely.  "No," she said.  

                Edgar Morgan stopped.  "No?" he asked guardedly.  

                "No, I'm not willing to help you," she said calmly.  "I've settled into a quiet life and I rather like it.  Eddie will have to get himself out of this mess himself.  And why in God's name would you want me?  Surely you can buy any one of a hundred floozies who'd be willing to say whatever you wanted for much less money than I would want."  

                "I need someone with credibility," he said.  "Someone a jury will believe.  You're his big sister, you know, people would believe that you all went out, had some fun, and things got carried away.  But not rape."  

                Alice reached out and took his coffee mug.   She poured the coffee down the sink.  It swirled dark for a moment and then vanished into the depths.  

                "The answer is no, Mr. Morgan.  Your overflowing wallet may yet buy Eddie another free pass, but not by my hands.  I'll escort you to the door now."  

                Morgan sighed.  "Alice, he's your _brother." _

                "An accident of biology," Alice answered coldly.  "You may lie for him.  For now, I'd appreciate it if you left."  

                "Alice," Morgan said, "look.  I know, you did six months in juvenile hall when you were younger…and I'm sorry.  And it was wrong.  We should have dealt with Eddie then, but your mother…," he trailed off.  "And Eddie isn't gonna get off scot-free.   He'll be punished."  

                "If he goes to prison, I'm sure he will," Alice said.  "I don't mean to be rude, but you don't respond to subtlety, Mr. Morgan.  _Leave." _

                Edgar Morgan got up.  "I'm sorry you're not willing to listen to reason," he said.  "It's a shame, Alice.  You're an independently wealthy woman because of us.  You'll never have to work a day in your life…because of us.  I'd hoped you might have shown some loyalty."  

                "Expect no loyalty from those you show none to," Alice said.  

                "And no talking to the press about this," Morgan said.  

                "You never said any such thing," Alice pointed out.   

                "Don't you dare," Morgan said, his face beginning to redden.  

                "Don't threaten me, Mr. Morgan," Alice said.   

                "I'm not," he said.  "Just work with me here, would you?"  

                When the door closed behind him, Alice sat back down with her own coffee and began to think.  The rich hazelnut flavor was comforting.  This was a new turn.  She wasn't surprised, though.  Her mother and stepfather had constantly saved Eddie from himself.  He never learned consequences.  It wasn't the first time, but it was the first time they were unable to protect him.  That was odd.  

 A delicious idea occurred to her.  She could use this for some fun, as well.  . It would take some work, sure.  She'd have to do her own detective work into Eddie's past. But it would give her another thread to play.  And between the two threads, she would be able to ensnare Clarice Starling.


	6. The Burning

                _Author's note:  Here we are, some gore for the gore fans.  Weaker stomachs may want to tune out now.  _

The faint ammonia smell of disinfectant stung Josh's nostrils as he entered the intensive care unit with Clarice.  Nurses bustled to and fro quietly.  The beep of heart monitors and the occasional calls of employees filled the place.  Calmly, Clarice displayed her ID to the nurse at the desk.  

                "We'd like to speak to James Winfield," Clarice said to the nurse.  Behind her, Josh shuffled his feet and looked vaguely uncomfortable.  For a moment time and space spun in on him, and he was five years old again, looking at Daddy in the bed that Hannibal Lecter had put him in.  He shivered and trembled.  

                "I see," the nurse said, and looked dubious.  "I'll call down his doctor."  

                Josh swallowed nervously.  A few minutes later, a harried-looking man in a white lab coat walked up to them.  

                "You're with the FBI?" he asked.  "Here to see Mr. Winfield?"  

                Josh nodded.  

                Clarice smiled kindly.  "We just want to ask him a few questions," she said.  "Nothing too bad.  But you know what was done to him."  

                The doctor nodded.  

                "Mr. Winfield very well may not survive the night," he said, as he began to walk forward towards the end of the burn unit.  "His burns are over ninety percent of his body.  Right now, we have him under heavy sedation.  He can't see and I don't know if he can hear.  For right now, we're providing palliative care.  He's receiving pain medication.  If he wants more, I am going to give it to him."   

                Josh nodded.  Clarice seemed to be able to deal better with this.  He hated hospitals.  He always had.  Dad ended up in the hospital when Dr. Lecter had slashed him up and a few other times when he needed to dry out.  Hospitals meant you'd screwed up. 

                But then again, Mr. Winfield might be able to tell them something.  

                "These burns were extremely severe," the doctor continued.  "Mr. Winfield smelled of gasoline when he was brought in.  There was also a soapy substance covering his body."  

                Josh sucked in breath as it occurred to him.  "Like napalm?" 

                The doctor turned and looked at him curiously.  "Actually, I'd say so," he said.  "Homemade, though.  We're running the residue through the labs.  I suspect it's common laundry detergent mixed with gasoline.  When you find the psychotic who did this, I'd appreciate it if you gave them a kick in the gut and told them it was from Frederick Newton, M.D.  This was one of the worst things I've seen in ten years of practice.  One moment, I'll see if he's awake." 

                The smell of burnt flesh was rank in the air as they approached the far end.  Josh flinched.  The doctor crossed into a private room and spoke briefly to the poor soul therein.  

                "Mr. Winfield, the FBI would like to see you," the doctor said calmly.  

                A faint rattle, like that escaping a corpse's last breath, came in response.  The doctor gestured for them to enter.  Clarice went around the door first.  Josh couldn't see the reporter, but he could see her.  Clarice's pupils expanded and she raised a hand to her mouth in horror. He could see her shoulders tremble.  She gestured for him to come in, too.  

                The room was small, white, and spare.  Machines gathered around the bedside as if concerned.   Lying on the bed was a horror.  Josh could not recognize it as human.  The face appeared to be nothing more than a blackened, crispy lump.  The features had molded and twisted as if they had partially melted.  The eyes were completely white.  Yet it lived.  A blackened claw trembled on the white bedsheet.  Somehow, amazingly, an IV line snaked down into it.  The other arm ended in a melted stub.    The stink of gasoline and the sweet smell of laundry detergent fought the reek of burnt meat for the aroma of the room.  

                "Are you…F…BI?" the thing on the bed asked.  

                "Yes," Clarice said, and Josh noticed her voice shaking.  

                "Why?" the thing that Jimmy Winfield had become asked.  "Why did you do this?"  

                "Why did we do what, Mr. Winfield?"  

                "FBI…burned me," the burnt piece of meat said.  

                Clarice sighed.  "Mr. Winfield," she said, "are you saying an FBI agent did this to you?"  

                "No," husked the Winfield-thing.  "Not…no agent.  Some…office…person…the file…she got me….," 

                Tears sprang to Clarice Starling's eyes.  "Some office person did this to you? A secretary?"  

                "…yes,…" Winfield hissed and made a clicking noise in his scorched throat.  

                "How did you know that, Mr. Winfield?"  

                "….said she was,…"  

                "She said she was?" Clarice pressed a knuckle to her mouth in horror.  Mr. Winfield did not mind.  His eyes were clouded over and did not see.  And yet somehow, she maintained a kind tone of voice.  Josh had no idea how she was doing it.  

                "Can you tell me what she looked like, Mr. Winfield?" Clarice asked.  "It was a woman?"  

                "Yes, a woman," Winfield gurgled.  

                "Can you see me? Was she as tall as me?"  

                "I…I can't see you." 

                Winfield began to shudder.  The doctor glanced over at Clarice with some annoyance.  

                "Agent Starling, please, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said.  

                The figure on the bed gave a jerk.  "Star…ling?"  it asked.  

                "Yes, sir," Clarice said, "I'm Agent Clarice Starling with the FBI.  Agent Josh Graham is with me.  You met us before, for the article, and then outside the murder scenes.  Don't you remember?"  

                "You…you'll know…," the figure husked again.  "She…she looked like…," 

                A sound like a death rattle came from his throat, a grotesque gasp and click.  

                "Agent Starling, _please," _the doctor said.  

                "_No," _the figure groaned.  "She looked like…Lect….Lecter."  The figure held up the blackened, twisted fingers of its remaining hand.  "Sih….sick…sick….,"  

                "_Now," _the doctor said, and shoved them out the door.  Clarice went obediently and signaled for Josh to comply too.  He was happy to.  The sight of the talking piece of charcoal made him ill.  The sight of dead bodies was something he had gotten used to.  But James Winfield was worse, a thing somewhere between life and death.  It was hard to believe he had once been the brassy reporter trying to pump them for details.  

                The doctor got them outside and eyed them with little sympathy.  

                "I'm sorry," he said, "but my first responsibility is to my patient."  

                Clarice nodded.  

                "I totally understand," she said, and reached into her purse for a card.  Josh noted oddly that the bag seemed a lot more expensive than her suit.  He swallowed briefly and looked away.  Clarice handed the card to the doctor.  

                "If he comes back to a position where he can talk, even for just a few minutes," Clarice said, "could you please call me?  I certainly wouldn't ever ask you to put your patient's health at risk.  But I just want to find out who did this to him."  

                "Of course, Agent Starling," the doctor said.  

                Back in the hospital room, James Winfield stirred and tried to continue his sentence.  

                "Sih..six fingers on her hand…," he gasped.  

                No one heard.  No one was listening.   A few minutes later, despite the best efforts of the medical staff, James Winfield died.  It was a common thought among the medical staff that perhaps that was more merciful.  

                Clarice and Josh walked down to their car calmly.  Clarice glanced over at him.  

                "You seem quiet," she said.  

                "I hate hospitals," Josh answered.  He thought about his father and pulled a face.  

                "Most people do," Clarice said.  "So tell me.  What do you think this was about?"  

                Josh took a moment to compose his thoughts and waggled his head.  

                "I think the killer has seen you somehow, obviously," he said.  "Winfield said the killer looked like Lecter.  Maybe it's a copycat.  I don't know if it has anything to do with the article about us, because the killer hasn't done anything to get my attention."  

                "Yet," Clarice emphasized.  

                Josh shrugged.  "Yet.  But if it's someone obsessed with Dr. Lecter, they haven't done their homework on him.  The killings don't exactly match up to anything he's done.  Usually copycats screw up somewhere, but the killings resemble the killer they're copying."  

                Clarice pondered that for a moment.  He was right on that.  "What about the fact that he said a woman did this to him?"  

                Josh thought.  "I'm not sure," he said.  "Women usually don't commit violent crimes like that.  He might've been delirious."  

                Clarice Starling, who had killed people before when her duty demanded it, turned and gave him a level look.  

                "It's possible," Clarice said.  "Women have committed some pretty vicious stuff."  

                Josh nodded.  "Usually, though, it's to someone they know.  Not strangers.  A woman might light her abusive boyfriend on fire.  That was in a movie once, wasn't it?  But not a stranger."  

                "This case just gets weirder and weirder," Clarice agreed.  

                …

                Alice was quite happy to leave the jail.  It was smelly, noisy, and dirty.  She'd been an anomaly in the visiting room:  a well-dressed woman in a suit with no kids. Her brother had been arrested the night before and spent the night in jail.  She supposed Mother and Mr. Morgan would arrange for his release on bail soon enough.  He'd been arrested Saturday night.  Today was Monday.  A day or two in jail would do the kid a world of good, Alice thought.  Too bad it couldn't be longer.  

                She'd gotten to one of the booths and waited calmly for him.  The other visitors thought she was his lawyer; she wore a smart suit and carried a briefcase.  They'd made her take off her sunglasses when she got there.  Rather odd.  

                The guards had brought out her brother in an orange jail jumpsuit.  _That _had amused her to no end.  Mother would have a _fit.  _Eddie had always been her baby.  Alice would've loved to get a photograph of him like that.  

                He resembled his father, Alice thought.  He was not bad looking.   His features were rough-chiseled.  His perfect teeth gleamed at her.  There was no guilt in his face at all.  He seemed surprised when he sat down on the other side of the booth, but that was all.  

                "Hi, Alice," he said, his voice garbled through the phone.  "Didn't expect to see you here."  

                Alice chuckled.  "No," she said.  "You expected your mother to come to your rescue, as she always has."  

                He shrugged.  

                "So did you do it?" Alice asked.  

                Eddie made a face.  "No," he said.  

                "Of _course _not," Alice said.  "Look, Eddie, are there any _other _girls who are going to pop up with the same claim?"  She made a face and an imperious gesture.  "Of _course _it's not true, and of _course _you're absolutely innocent.  Just as you were innocent of the drug charges, the DWI, all of it."  

                Eddie leaned forward and stared at his older sister through the Plexiglass.  "Why do _you _want to know?"  

                Alice smiled coldly.  "Perhaps I want to help out my little brother," she said.  "Give me some names, Eddie.  If you don't want my help, then fine, so be it."  

                Eddie shifted his feet and eyed her dubiously.  

                "Fine," he said, and named a few names.  Alice wrote them down.  Afterwards, she watched him with a grin.  

                "You think this is funny, don't you?" Eddie said.   

                Alice shrugged.  "It's amusing to see the golden boy finally in a situation Mommy can't extricate him from," she said.  "And being vindicated.  _You _should have been the one in juvie, dear Edgar.  Had you learned consequences then, you might not be here today."  

                Edgar Morgan III flipped his middle finger up at his older sister.  The guard behind him started forward.  Alice waved him off.  

                "Mom put you in Juvie cause you were a goddam psycho," he said unsympathetically.  "She never should've let you out." 

                "And you're a rapist, Eddie.  Have a nice day.  Mommy will be here to bail you out soon."  She hung up the phone and got up, enjoying the look of surprise on his face.  The guard started forward to take him back to his cell.  He mouthed something at her behind the Plexiglass.  She supposed it was something obscene.  His problem.  

                Now, she was heading back to her car.  Her heels echoed against the concrete of the parking garage's floor.  Her Mustang was parked nearby, and she slid behind the wheel and tapped on the steering wheel for a moment, thoughtfully.  

                It was too bad, she thought, that there had been so many police officers at Starling's the night before.  Clarice had scurried off with little Josh Graham.  Doubtlessly off to speak with the fricasseed reporter.  Alice found herself wondering idly what Clarice would have thought if she had returned home to find Ardelia Mapp's severed head waiting for her on her kitchen table.  That might've been fun; Alice would've even put some lipstick and eyeshadow on the head for her. But there were too many cops to even think of it.  There _had _been a bit of a crowd gathered around, attracted by the flashing red lights.  

                Alice decided it was time to commit one more murder, just to keep the heat on that way.  It would be so much more fun to keep Clarice on her toes.  Then it was time to go to the next phase of her plan.  

                _Decisions, decisions, Alice Pierpont thought.  __Who shall I kill today?  _

The factories were out.  She supposed Clarice would have a police watch on her house, just in case.  She'd need to put this one together on short notice.  After a moment or two, it occurred to her who would be fun to kill.  An old voice echoed in her memory:  _Smile and suck it up, freaky.  _It would be a bit of a connection to her, but that was OK.  She didn't think Clarice would be able to track down the connection in the time she had remaining.  

                It took her a bit of work.  Fortunately, Alice was experienced at social engineering as a means of getting information that she wanted.  Once she was back home, she flipped through the white pages.  A…B…C…Ch…Chelmsford, there it was.  Chelmsford Juvenile Detention Center.  She made a quick phone call to the main number of the juvenile facility she had spent six months in ten years ago.  She knew the schedule of the employees _then, _but it had been a decade since she had been there.  It would be foolish to expect that it might not have changed.    

                "Chelmsford Juvenile Detention Center," a businesslike voice said.  

                "Hello," Alice said.  "This is Mary, from Graham, Starling and Crawford, Attorneys At Law.  I'm calling to ask about deposing an employee there."  

                The voice stopped for a moment, becoming cautiously adversarial.   "Which employee would that be?"  

                "Sandra Thurmond," Alice said calmly.  "We're making a motion to have our client removed to a less secure facility.  Ms. Thurmond has been overseeing our client for a while.  Now, we'd like to make this as easy as possible.   Could you tell me what days she's on?"  

                The voice paused again.   Obviously she didn't expect Sandra Thurmond to be useful in a deposition.  So that hadn't changed.  But the Chelmsford people knew better than to argue with attorneys.  A few minutes later, the secretary flipped through something.  Alice could hear paper rustling.  Dubiously, she said, "Sandra Thurmond works first shift, Tuesday through Saturday."  

                "Thank you," Alice said.  Then, as if a throwaway question, she added, "Oh, so she's off today?"  

                "Yes," the secretary said.  

                _Hmmm, the schedule hasn't changed after ten years, Alice thought.  _ Now that's convenient.  __

She packed a bag calmly.  Her knives, of course.  Some rope.  A few other odds and ends.  Sandra Thurmond did not have a listed number.   That only made sense; the woman had God knew how many juvenile charges and former charges who might want to go after her. That was just fine.  Alice sat down at her computer and surfed to www.ussearch.com.  For $19.95, they offered her basic information available in public records.  She bought that, giving the parameters of 'Sandra Thurmond' in 'Baltimore, MD'.  That was enough to pull up an address.  

                Alice checked mapblast.com for directions.  It was in a blue-collar section of Baltimore.  She printed out the directions and headed out.  She drove first to the Baltimore airport, where she kept her van.  She didn't plan to transport Sandra anywhere, but driving into a working-class neighborhood in a brand-new Mustang would draw a bit of attention.  The van was a bit older and a bit more battered.  No one would pay attention to it.  

                She parked half a block away from the house.  It was far enough that her victim wouldn't see it, but close enough that she could make it back quickly.  She had sneakers and pants in her bag; for now she wore her suit.  She wanted to look official for this, and the suit would help her do that.  

                Alice extracted a few papers from her briefcase that looked vaguely official.  She'd whomped them up on her computer at home while she packed.  It would look like someone had filed suit against Sandra Thurmond.  That would be enough to get the woman's attention and would get Alice in the house.  

                She wasn't afraid of being recognized.  It had been ten years since Sandra Thurmond had last seen her.  And facts were facts, Thurmond thought that her charges were more likely to end up in a jail uniform than a nice suit.  

                Alice knocked on the door and waited, adopting a calm but harried expression, as if it was her life's work to deliver pieces of paper to people.  The house was small and sided with white vinyl siding.  A strident voice came from the interior of the house.  

                "I'm coming!"  

                Alice waited a moment until Sandra Thurmond came to the door.  Her sunglasses masked her odd maroon eyes; she kept her left hand down where it was blocked by the screen door.  Held firmly in it was a black leather sap.  

                Sandra Thurmond came towards the door.  She was a heavy, muscular woman.  She towered over Alice just as she had ten years ago.  That was no big deal; Alice knew perfectly well that big didn't mean much.  Her hair was short and her face looked rather like a shovel.  She wore an inexpensive shirt,  blue jeans, and no makeup.  The intervening years hadn't changed her too much, Alice thought.  There was a streak of gray along one temple.  Other than that she was the same overlord of the juvenile cellblock she had been before.   She gave Alice a direct, calm look.  

                "Are you Sandra Thurmond?" Alice asked as if bored.  

                "Yes," Sandra asked.  "What's the problem?"  

                "I have something for you," Alice said, and held up the piece of paper.  "I need you to take this."  

                Sandra opened the screen door.  Alice handed her the paper.  

                "You've been served, Ms. Thurmond," Alice said in a matter-of-fact tone.  

                A look of shock came over the big woman's face.  Alice carefully took a step forward, getting her foot in the door.  She would have to get in the house, quick while the other woman was still surprised, then sap her until she went down.  

                "Someone's _suing me?" Thurmond demanded.  "What the hell?  Which little bitch is it?  I'll kill her ass."  _

                Her attention dropped down to the paper, and that was Alice's opening.  Quickly, Alice stepped into the house and slammed the door behind her.  Thurmond was grumbling something about the little bitches.  She glanced up, realizing that the process server wasn't supposed to come in the house with her, but it was too late.  The sap was already up and moving.  

                Sandra Thurmond had overcome her juvenile inmates before, and she was no stranger to fighting.  Most of her charges were right-handed, as Alice herself indeed was.  Instinctually, she moved to block, btu she was expecting a right-handed blow.  As usually happened, reason won out over instinct.  The sap smacked her temple hard and she staggered.  

                Alice moved in for a second blow without delay.  Her foe's eyes were already dimming, and a second blow finished the job.  The woman collapsed to the floor without another word.  Alice glanced around.  No neighbors looking around.  She dragged the other woman into the kitchen and got her set up in a chair.  

                Alice bound her victim to the chair.  She supposed it would hold.  If not, that would be OK too.  She was quick and economical with her motions.   Sandra wouldn't be going anywhere.  From her bag, she took the plastic tube and a roll of duct tape.  She crammed the tube far back in Sandra's mouth, far enough that she wouldn't be able to spit it out.  Alice was generous with the duct tape, wrapping it around the tube so that a bit of the tube stuck out.  Sandra's breathing through the tube was raspy and machinelike.  Alice found it quite amusing.  

                From a small plastic box, Alice extracted two fishhooks tied together with two pieces of fishing line.  She carefully punctured each cheek with a fishhook and then looped the fishing line around the back of Sandra's head.  By carefully tightening the slipknot on the fishing line, she was able to force the heavy woman's face into a grinning rictus.  

                That made the heavy woman start, and she opened her eyes and let out a muffled grunt.  Her eyes swam into focus and stared at her tormentor.  Alice smiled pleasantly and waved.  

                "Hi, Sandra," she said.  "You'll excuse me not calling you 'Miss Thurmond' anymore.  That's a mark of respect,  and I have none for you."  

                Sandra amused her terribly by trying to speak through the tube.  

                "Whooo the fck arre youuuu?" she said.  

                "Don't you remember me?" Alice said, and waved the fingers of her left hand.  

                Sandra paled and said something through the tube that sounded like 'shit'.  

                "That's right," Alice said lightly.  "Which little bitch, you asked?  The answer is me.  Freaky.  The six-fingered freak.  I was in your custody for six months, ten years ago.  You remember."  She rose and walked towards her victim calmly.  "You took special pleasure in humiliating me, because I came from a wealthy family.  You used to like making me clean the toilets and the drains."  Her head tilted and her tone became mocking.  "_Clean that bathroom, freaky,'" _she said.  "_'You're not in your Howard County mansion now, kiddo.  You answer to me, so just smile and suck it up.'  _Remember that?  I do."  

                "Nooooo," Sandra foghorned through the tube.  

                "Yep," Alice said.  "The funny thing is, I hadn't been planning to kill you.  I just got the idea today.  And I know _just how to do it."  _

                Conveniently, Sandra's kitchen had a pot and pan rack mounted to the overhead ceiling.  Alice removed a longer tube and attached it to the end of the tube protruding from her former keeper's mouth.  From the rack she suspended an upside-down bottle.  

                On the far kitchen wall was an award from Chelmsford, proclaiming that Sandra Thurmond was the Employee of the Month for all her hard work with troubled youths.  Alice saw this and laughed bitterly.  

                "You're smiling," she said brightly.  "Now it's time for you to suck it up."  She took the end of the long tube and attached it to the bottle.  Sandra's eyes followed up to the rack and saw the upside-down bottle, made out the upside-down words _Liquid Drano _on the label, and began to grunt.  

                "Employee of the Month. What is it, a union thing?  Every employee has to get it at least once?  You were nothing more than a sadistic bully," Alice said disdainfully.  A blue liquid began to creep out of the bottle and cascade down the tube.  Sandra threw her head around and screamed.  The chair bumped up and down.  Calmly, mercilessly, Alice grabbed the other woman's head and tilted it back so that Sandra was staring at the ceiling.  

                The blue liquid slipped through the tube into Sandra's mouth.  

                "Smile…and _suck it up," Alice said, grinning cruelly._

                A stronger muffled scream came from the tube, along with gagging and choking noises.  Alice stepped in close and grabbed the other woman's head, holding it still while the economy-size bottle emptied.  Occasionally, Sandra tried to spit it out and the blue liquid popped up in the tube.  

                Her face turned bright red.  Alice held her head firmly in a crushing grip. The entire chair rocked back and forth.  But she was still alive.  She coughed and spat.  Alice calculated the small amount of Drano left in the tube and figured that her victim had to have swallowed a lethal dose by now.  

                She stepped away then, watching the woman's violently contorting face.  She stared at Alice in misery.  Perhaps now, she had learned a lesson.  Alice took one of her knives and cut the woman's wrist.  The flow of blood was immediate, but not enough to ensure that her victim wouldn't die of poisoning.  

                Carefully, Alice put on her glove and rubbed her gloved left hand in the blood.  She stamped it down on the table again, leaving her six-fingered mark.  She observed her victim carefully and tore the tape from her mouth.  She threw the tube on the floor.  

                Sandra Thurmond let out a gasp and shuddered. She glanced up at Alice with eyes of misery and pain.  Alice looked down calmly at her.  

                "Well," she said.  "Now perhaps you've learned a valuable lesson.  Too bad it's too late to apply it in life, but there you go."  

                Sandra opened her mouth and made a gargling sound in her throat.  Her tongue had been eaten away in parts by the acid.  From the sound of it, her throat had suffered the same fate.  Alice leaned forward and chuckled coldly.  

                "Goodbye, Sandra," Alice said.  "I suppose you're in pain now."  

                Sandra nodded tiredly.  

                "Are you in agony?" 

                Another nod.  

                "Would you like me to put you out of your misery?"  Alice drew the knife and displayed it so that she could see it.  

                A ragged, choking sigh.  Something that sounded like a sob.  And finally, another nod.  

                Alice thought for a moment, staring at her prey, and calculated something in her mind.  

                "You recommended against my release, do you remember that?  I could've gotten out after four months, but you said I had a lousy attitude," Alice reminded her.  "Do you remember saying that?"  

                Sandra nodded a fourth time, eyes pleading.  

                "I haven't gotten over my lousy attitude," Alice said archly, and sheathed the knife.  Her right hand blurred in a slap, rocking the other woman's mottled red face over to one side.  "The answer is no.  I won't put you out of your misery.  Don't worry, though, it won't be much longer."  

                It took Alice a few minutes to change into pants and comfortable shoes.  Just on the off chance Sandra managed to get free and call the police in the ten minutes or so of life she had remaining, Alice pulled the kitchen phone off the wall and broke the receiver in half.  She was far stronger than she looked.  

                When she went out to the van, a kid walking a dog waved hi to her.  She waved hi back.  The drive back to the airport to drop off the van and switch cars was uneventful.  Alice Pierpont whistled to herself as she pulled into her home driveway.  Everything was going just fine.  


	7. Baiting the Trap

                Dr. Lecter was enjoying a cup of coffee on his patio.  He had his American newspapers to read and felt quite content.  The _Tattler _always served to amuse him.  Today's headline looked interesting.  _Fiendish Murders Rock Baltimore!  _  

                He opened the _Tattler _and continued reading.  He was gratified to see a picture of Clarice Starling on one side of the article.  Another for his collection.  As he read, his head tilted like that of a parrot and a curious look crossed his face.  

                _Another monstrous death in Baltimore has claimed the life of Sandra Thurmond, a worker with troubled youth.  Although police are stumped, the work appears to be that of the Six-Fingered Killer, whose distinctive handprint has been found at two murder scenes now.  The monster responsible stamped both handprints deliberately, in the blood of their victims.  FBI gumshoes Clarice Starling and Joshua Graham are on the case.  They are determined to avenge the wanton murder of James Winfield, ace Tattler reporter, as well as the other victims of the monster._

                _This case bears troubling hallmarks to another killer who once terrorized Baltimore years ago – the Chesapeake Ripper, unmasked as Dr. Hannibal Lecter by Agent Will Graham, the father of the current Joshua Graham.  Tellingly, the Six Fingered Killer's handprint possesses two perfectly duplicated middle fingers.  This is the rarest form of polydactyly, and it is the very same type that Dr. Lecter possessed.  Dr. Lecter escaped custody in a fiendish burst of blood ten years ago.  Two years ago, he cruelly murdered slaughterhouse magnate Mason Verger.  No one has heard from him since.   Has he finally come home to roost?   Will Joshua Graham follow in his father's footsteps and capture the fiend?_  

Dr. Lecter frowned at the paper.  His left hand had the normal amount of fingers on it; he'd had that surgery done years ago.  All that remained of his former second middle finger was a scar on the back of his hand.  The _Tattler _helpfully provided a photograph of the Six Fingered Killer's hand.  It _looked _like the way his hand used to look.   Hmmm. 

                And it wasn't him anyway.  Dr. Lecter was not surprised that there were copycats out there; his work had been sensationalized.  But so far as he knew, no one had tried to graft an extra finger onto their hand to be like him.  

                Dr. Lecter carried the paper into his office and took a magnifying glass to examine it.  The cheap newsprint did not provide the best material for examination.  The tiny dots of ink that made up the picture jumped up to his eyes. 

                Dr. Lecter was better suited than most to determine if the photograph – or the handprint itself – was faked.  His experience was simple but daunting:  he had lived with such a hand on his wrist for over fifty years.  The picture was quite poor quality and did not suit Dr. Lecter, but he doubted that the authorities would be willing to mail him a better copy.  Still, he was inclined to think it was real from what he could see.   

                Was that object to the right a pen?  Dr. Lecter thought that it was.  He closed his eyes.  He had always possessed a remarkable visual memory; that was one of his things in common with Will.  Was his boy so talented?  That would be interesting to find out.  He dismissed the thought and forced himself to concentrate.  

                Eidetics can often not only recall images with perfect clarity, but rotate and change pictures in their minds as well.  This ability had helped to keep Dr. Lecter sane during his years in the asylum.  An image of Dr. Lecter's own hand, before his surgery, floated into his head.  Next to it, he pictured the Six Fingered Killer's hand.  Between the two floated a plastic ballpoint pen.     

                   There it was.  Provided the pen was the standard size, the Six Fingered Killer's hand was smaller than his own.  He had no reason to think the pen was not standard size.  Dr. Lecter was not a tall man himself.  This was a killer with small hands indeed. 

                He would have liked to get his hands on the case file for this one.  This killer looked to be one after his own heart.  What was Clarice thinking?  

                He continued on in the _Tattler.  _

_                Wealthy Monster in Rape Scandal! _screamed another headline.  Dr. Lecter was privately amused to read that Edgar Morgan III, the son of his former girlfriend, had been arrested for rape.  _My, Jane, you made for quite a poor mother, did you not?  _Edgar Morgan III had been released on bail, but would be facing criminal charges.  The _Tattler _did not reveal the name of the victim.  

                Ah well.  Dr. Lecter put away his coffee and considered writing Clarice.  She might be able to use the help.  

                …

                 Clarice sat in her office at Quantico, reviewing pictures from the Thurmond crime scene.  What a _horrible _way to die.  The Six Fingered Killer was one sick puppy.  She would have to catch the killer.  Someone like this could not be trusted to run free.  Day after day, atrocity after atrocity, until the killer was stopped.  She would do that.  

                Josh Graham entered the office and eyed Clarice soberly.  

                "Hi, Starling," he said dolefully.  She'd asked him to review Chelmsford's files and see if there was anything that might come up.  From the looks of it, he hadn't come up with much. 

                "Find anything?" she asked brightly.  

                He grinned tiredly.  "Well, that depends on your definition," he said.  "Sandra Thurmond worked for the juvenile detention center for twenty years.  Did a bit of chatting with the workers…_and the inmates.  Turns out Sandra wasn't well liked by the inmates and hadn't been for years."  _

                "So…," Clarice probed.  

                "So there's _tons _of people out there who would've had a reason to want to kill her," Josh finished.  "Like several thousand released juvenile delinquents over the years.  _Or any of their family members or their buddies.   Plus…just to _add _to the fun, they told me they might not be able to give us full information."  _

                Clarice thought she knew what he meant, but decided to ask.  "Why not?"  

                "Because," Josh said.  "Their records are considered court records.  Court records of juveniles in Maryland are usually sealed.  Either the court does it or the kid involved can ask the court when they turn 21.  If they've kept their nose clean, it's almost invariably granted.  Once they're sealed…that's it.  You can't get them open without a showing of good cause."  He shook his head.  "So we're in a catch-22.  They can't tell us if they've ever had an inmate with six fingers on their left hand.  We have to have a court order to get that information.  They don't have one _now_, and that's the most they can say."  

                Clarice pondered for a moment.  "Why can't we get a court order?" she asked.  "Crawford knows some judges.  We could probably get one."  

                Josh exhaled.  "The problem is we need good cause to open the records," he said.  "Fishing expeditions don't fly.  There are probably thousands of records we'd have to go through, and every one who _isn't _the Six Fingered Killer could turn around and sue us.  Crawford doesn't want to walk through _that _minefield unless there are no other leads."   

                Clarice frowned.  "That sucks," she said.  "Still, our killer has six fingers, there can't be _that _many of them.  I think we ought to try."  

                Josh shrugged.  "Crawford doesn't want to chance it," he said.  "There've been scandals about that sort of thing.  He said to try other paths, and if nothing else works we'll try that."    

                "It still sucks," Clarice complained.  

                Josh made a helpless gesture.  "Take it up with Crawford," he said.  "And you know, it _is _possible that Thurmond was picked for some other reason.  Or maybe it was the Six Fingered Killer's buddy who was in juvie under Thurmond, or his girlfriend, or something.  It may be a dead lead.  And in any case there's a _ton _of possible suspects for the Thurmond murder.  We ought to see if we can come up with a link between Baker and Thurmond, I think."  

                Clarice nodded.  She'd thought the same thing.  She was pleased that he had suggested it.  "How about Hale?" she asked.  

                He shook his head slowly.  "I think Hale was a victim of opportunity," he said.  "The Six Fingered Killer saw Hale on TV, that's what I think."  

                "I think you're right," she said, and took a bit of pleasure in watching him preen.  

                "Well," he said.  "I'm gonna go grab the Baker and Hale files and see what we can find.  I'll be back in like ten minutes."  

                "Have fun," Clarice said, and bent over the file again.  Her phone rang.  She grabbed it while still poring over the file.  

                "Starling," she said calmly.  

                "Agent Starling?"  The voice was female, young, and scared.   

                "Yes, that's me.  Can I help you?"  

                The voice took in a large, shuddering breath.  "I think so," she said.  "Have you read the paper?"  

                "Yes, I have," Clarice said.  "In regard to what?"  She tensed.   Was this about the Six Fingered Killer?  

                "That rape case," the voice said, and appeared ready to break.  "In Baltimore." 

                Clarice took a measured breath.  Rape case?  She opened up a web browser and surfed to the home page of the Baltimore _Sun.  _

                "The Morgan case?"  Clarice was puzzled, and her tone showed it.  

                "Yes," the voice replied.  "I have…I have some information about it."  

                "Ma'am, I've heard of it, but that's not my case," Clarice said soothingly.  "That's being handled by the state authorities in Maryland.  If you have information about it, you should contact them."  

                "But…but…I read about you in the _Tattler," _the voice said.  "You don't understand…my dad works for Edgar Morgan's dad.  The state authorities are in his pocket.  And he…he…," 

                A pang of concern went through Clarice.  It sounded like the woman on the other end of the line was crying.  "He what?"  

                "He did it to me, too," the voice said, and broke into tears.  

                Clarice sighed.  What was she supposed to do now?  She didn't know how to handle this.  

                "Okay.  Okay," she soothed.  "Can you tell me your name?"  

                "Amanda Taylor," the other woman sniffled.  

                "Amanda, now look.  I can talk to the District Attorney in Baltimore for you, if you want."  

                "He's done it to other girls too," the voice said.  "In Maryland and Virginia and DC.  That's federal, isn't it?"  

                Clarice held in her breath.  Technically no, it wasn't.  But she couldn't simply turn her back.  

                "Can I meet you to talk?" Amanda Taylor asked.  

                "Sure," Clarice said.  "Sure.  I get off work at six.  How's that?"  

                "Fine," Amanda sniffled.  "I'll meet you at the Washington Monument.  By the reflecting pool."  

                Clarice let her breath out.  That was fine, she could talk.  Maybe get the girl some help.  It sounded like she needed it.  

                "Six at the Washington Monument.  Okay.  I'll be there, Amanda."  

                "Thank you," the voice choked.  

                Clarice hung up.  The crime scene she'd been examining seemed so unimportant now.  She had to force herself to pore over it.  She'd handle this when six rolled around.  For a moment she debating bringing Josh and then decided against it.  He wasn't trained for this sort of thing.  No, she would do this herself.  It wasn't official work anyway.

                On the other end of the line, Alice Pierpont hung up and grinned widely.  The trap had been set.  


	8. The Trap is Sprung

                The Washington Monument thrust into the sky like an ivory stiletto.  Around it, the reflecting pool offered a wavy reflection of the structure encased in dark water.  There were a few people walking around the monument and night was falling, wrapping the area in a dark quilt.  Tiny white flakes of snow fluttered from the sky and landed in Clarice's hair.  

                She was watchful, looking around for the person she was here to meet.  Amanda Taylor hadn't given her a physical description.   Probably she'd read about Clarice in the _Tattler.  _Clarice hoped that Amanda would recognize her.  

                She saw a woman sitting on the wall surrounding the reflecting pool.  Was that her?  Clarice thought that it was.  The poor girl.  She'd made a call to Baltimore PD, trying to see what she could find out.  Edgar Morgan III was not unknown to Baltimore PD.  He'd been picked up for tons of little stuff.  A DWI, underage drinking, and a few drug charges.  A kid who liked to party, it seemed.  Nothing had stuck, though; the DWI charge had been dismissed after the high-priced lawyers did their thing.  The drug charges and underage drinking charges had been thrown out of court similarly.  The people Clarice spoke to at Baltimore PD were quietly sour, opining that Eddie Morgan didn't learn his lesson.  

                Now, he would.  Clarice didn't plan on doing much more than serving as a conduit for the Baltimore authorities. But for now, she suspected, Amanda Taylor just needed a sympathetic ear.  That was something Clarice could do.  She'd always ached for the victims.  

                Clarice walked up calmly to the figure.  She smiled calmly and put the hood of her coat back.  

                "Are you Amanda Taylor?"  Clarice asked.  

                The figure nodded.  Up close, she was an attractive girl.  Very pale skin.  Her hair was very dark black, blending into the black leather jacket that she wore.  It was hard to make out her eye color in the dark.  Darker eyes, Clarice thought.  Brown or black.  Her lips seemed to be of greater color against her pale skin.  She wore an expensive leather coat, black mittens, jeans, and chic little ankle boots.  Clarice found herself a bit disquieted all the same.  

                "Thank you for coming," she said.  "I…I read about you in the paper.  You got that serial killer a while ago.  Beefy Bill, or something like that."  

                "Buffalo Bill," Clarice said absently, and shivered.  A sharp wind came stabbing in from the Atlantic and stabbed through her coat.

                "It's cold," the girl observed.  "If you want, we can talk in my car.  It's right over there."  She adopted a pained expression.  

                Clarice was about to say no, but then thought better of it.  It might help Amanda to talk on her own turf.  She rose and walked alongside the young woman.  Their boots crunched against the snow.  White, newfallen snow, matted down icy and crunchy on the plaza, gave way to dirty, gray snow on the sidewalk.  

                The van the girl walked towards struck Clarice as a surprising choice of vehicle.  From the way she was dressed, Clarice would've expected something little and sporty.  She looked like she had some money, at any rate.  The black cargo van didn't go with the driver.  Hmmm.  

                But the girl unlocked the van and opened the door.  She hopped in the driver's seat and sat down, blowing into her mittens to try and warm her hands.  Then she took a deep breath and spoke.  Her breath plumed in the cold van.  Clarice's seat was cold.  Almost on reflex, she lowered the sunshade and peeked in the vanity mirror.  Behind her, the van was astringently neat and bare.  There were the two seats they were sitting in.  Behind them was a long wooden box of some type, and a gym bag.  The van was carpeted neatly with 

                "Edgar Morgan is…a monster," she began slowly.  "He's always gotten away with anything he ever did.  His parents buy him out of trouble."  

                Clarice nodded.  _That _story was all too common.  

                "He…we were at a party, and he invited me back to his place…I know, it was dumb," the girl continued, and her face worked.  "He's not always scary…he can be very charming."  

                "I know the type," Clarice said in a whisper.  

                "He gave me a drink.  I didn't watch him make it.   I just thought…you know, that it was a drink.  All I remember is drinking it and then feeling really dizzy, and then…then..," she let out a shuddering sob.  "Then I woke up naked in his bed."  

                Clarice let out her breath.  "It wasn't your fault," she said comfortingly.  "You didn't know."  

                "He said…he said it was," the girl cried.  "He said…he said if I told anyone he would kill me.  He said he'd killed someone before."  

                That made Clarice sit up.  It might be simply big talk, but then again, it might not be.  

                "I know this is hard for you," Clarice said.  "And you're very brave to tell me this.  I…I want to ask you, though.  Did he say who he'd killed?"  

                Amanda shook her head.  She sniffled.  

                "I want to get my cigarettes," she said, and bounded into the back.  Clarice could hear her crying back there and felt bad.  A zipper rasped.  The girl let out a shuddering sigh.  

                Then suddenly, there were two powerful arms around her, pinning her back in her seat.  Clarice gasped.  A clean, white rag was clamped over her nose and mouth.  She could smell the sickly sweet smell of chloroform and tried to twist her face away.  But the arms holding her were inhumanly strong.  Clarice tried to scream and got a faceful of white cotton for her trouble.  She gasped in air and her vision blurred.  

                The girl's right hand was clamped firmly around her, pulling her into the seat.  Clarice could catch just a glimpse of her face in the mirror.  A passing car's headlights showed it.  The girl's eyes reflected the light redly.  When she realized it, she gasped in horror.  Now she could see it.  Dark hair, resembling a pelt.  Pale skin.  Maroon eyes.  And the hand grabbing her right hand and keeping her safely away from her gun had six fingers.  For a moment, Clarice pinwheeled between the past and the present.  She envisioned the figure in his cell, mocking and probing.  Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  But this couldn't be.  Dr. Lecter had no progeny, so said the prevailing wisdom.  The prevailing wisdom was obviously in error.  She'd been played for a fool.  

                _Six fingers.  It's the Six Fingered Killer, she's his daughter or something, Jesus Fucking Christ, _Clarice thought.  But her gasp of horror had also sealed her fate.  She could feel her traitorous body begin to slacken.  Then her eyes began to roll up in her head and the dark van went entirely black.  

                Alice Pierpont rose from behind the passenger seat and pulled Clarice's limp form from the passenger seat.  Carefully she relieved the FBI agent of her gun, handcuffs, and cell phone.  The gun went in Alice's bag.  She pulled the battery off the cell phone.  The cell phone went in one inside jacket pocket and the battery in the other.  The handcuffs went on Clarice's wrists.  She put them in front of her.  It wasn't as secure, but it was necessary.  

                The long wooden box was six feet long, three feet wide, and two feet tall.  Clarice fit inside just fine.  It was a bit on the tight side, Alice allowed, but she didn't plan on quartering Clarice in there for terribly long.  There were straps on the bottom of the box, and Alice used these to strap Clarice down.  She turned Clarice's face so that if she woke up and puked, she wouldn't choke on it.  

                The lid to the box fitted snugly when Alice closed it.  She slipped a padlock through the hasp and locked the box shot.  Clarice was going to stay in there for the time being.  Her prisoner was secured and now she could get out of here.  

                Alice slipped behind the wheel of the van and circled the monument, looking for Clarice's battered Roush Mustang.  She found it in a parking garage not far away.  That was just fine as far as Alice was concerned.  Had it been on the street, it would have been found more easily.  _Eventually, _they would find it – she had little doubt of that – but it could stay where it was for now.  Moving it was not worth the risk of leaving behind some sort of evidence.

                She popped the battery back on the cell phone for a moment and stared at it curiously.  Scrolling through the numbers found her what she was looking for.  JOSH CELL, JOSH HOME, and JOSH WORK were right in the middle.  Alice turned around and glanced reproachfully at the box.  

                "Clarice Starling, honestly," she told the box.  "Cradle robbing, are we?"  

                She started the van and drove away, the van slipping easily into the night. It picked up the Baltimore-Washington expressway and merged into traffic.  After several minutes, a groan came from the back of the van.   

                "You and I are going to have some _fun,_ Clarice," Alice said gleefully.  

                …

                Josh Graham sat in his apartment.  Someone looking in on him might have been quite concerned.  He had the crime scene files around him.  Every sheet, every photograph, every record in those files were arranged around him in a semicircle.   It looked as if he was determined to be some type of bureaucratic god and the forms and photographs his worshippers.  

                He had seen his father do this when he'd been a small boy.  The damn thing was, it worked.  It suited his ability to picture things visually.  The system looked chaotic, but it wasn't.  There was an underlying order to it.  To Josh, it was a strange but effective way of saying _Om _and opening the doors to inner contemplation and reflection.  From then, he could step into the mind of his prey.  

                He started off with an easy but controversial one.  

                _Clarice thinks the killer is female.  That's not the norm.  But it's possible.  Let's see…._

Something in his head directed him towards Sandra Thurmond's employment record. Josh would have had difficulty saying exactly _what, _but there was something on the paper that he should read.  In earlier days, they might have called this a demon or a spirit.  Josh didn't believe in any of that – what pointed him towards that particular sheet, in his view was his subconscious mind reminding him of something it had seen.  There were no demons in the world.  He grabbed it and scanned it.  Something here…what was it?    

                _Current posting: Custodial Officer, Girls Wing, 1985-present    _

_                Damn, Josh thought.  Thurmond hasn't dealt with male inmates there for almost twenty years.  Just the girls. If there is a connection, it's likely that the Six Fingered Killer is a girl.  Maybe the Six Fingered Killer is the boyfriend of a girl who was there, but wait…there's more.  _

He stood and turned, lording it over his kowtowing subjects of paper, and reached down to bestow divine favor on another sheet.  Jeannette Baker.  Specifically, the interview with the owner of the club she danced in.    

                _Subject's employer stated he saw her leave the bar at approximately2:30 PM.  No other customers were present.  The bouncer saw her out to the parking lot.  The bouncer states he saw her head out to her car.  No other person was present in the parking lot that he could see other than other dancers leaving the club.  _

Okay.  No customers.  The bouncer would have noticed someone, because that was his job.  There were probably some creepy customers who might lurk outside in the parking lot.  If the bouncer wasn't a total retard, he had already at least looked.  It was possible that he had gotten surprised.  Still…more fuel for Clarice's suggestion that the Six Fingered Killer was a woman.  Another dancer would have slipped out unnoticed.  The bouncer wouldn't have considered her dangerous.  And then she'd coshed Jeannette Baker over the head and driven her off to her death.  

                It wasn't proof enough for a court of law, but that wasn't Josh's department.  He dealt in profiles and probabilities and induction.  Based on what he saw, the evidence pointed to the Six Fingered Killer being a woman.  That was odd, but well within the range of possibility.  

                _Okay.  Do another one.  _

                If she'd worked at a strip club, that meant she…hmm…she had a good body.  He grinned to himself.  No, seriously.  If she worked at a strip club, she was probably between, say , twenty and thirty.  She'd be attractive enough to get a job at a club.  Josh didn't think the ID she'd shown to get the job would be worth squats – she knew what she was there to do.  But they could get a physical description of any new dancers that had gotten a job there.  

                Josh didn't think she'd worked there that long.  A month, max.  He had to stop himself for a moment.  Was he sure she'd gotten a job there?  Maybe she'd just dressed like a dancer or something.  Well…it was possible.  But he had the feeling she had actually been there.  

                His brainstorm was continuing when his cell phone rang.  He picked it up and glanced at the display. The caller ID read CLARICE M STARLING.  He hit TALK and put the phone to his ear.  

                "Starling?" he asked.  He felt better calling her that.  'Agent Starling' was also fine, but she called him 'Graham' rather than 'Agent Graham'.  He didn't feel right calling her 'Clarice'.  The one time he'd called her 'Ms. Starling' he'd gotten a look that made his collar turn starchy.  

                There was no reply at first.  An acoustic guitar began bouncing a merry melody into the speaker.  Then two male voices began to sing.

_And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson   
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)   
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson   
Heaven holds a place for those who pray _

_Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey   
  
We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files   
We'd like to help you learn to help yourself   
Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes   
Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home_

"Starling?  What the hell?" Josh asked.  Had Starling been hitting the booze or something?  

A female voice came on the line.  It didn't sound like Clarice.  Josh Graham found himself feeling suddenly nervous.  

"Ooooh, Josh," the voice cooed.   

                Josh swallowed.  "Who is this?" he demanded.  

                "Who am I?  That's not important.  I do want to ask about your taste in women, though."  

                "What?" 

                A giggle came up the line.  "Honestly, Josh.  She's rather old for you.  Is it the experience you look for? _I've _got that, dear.  Or are you looking for a mommy?" 

                "I want to talk to Starling," Josh said.  "And I want your name.  We're tracking this call." 

                "No, you're not, and no, I won't give you my name.  As for Starling?  She can't come to the phone right now.  It's time for her Geritol and Metamucil nightcap."  Another chuckle.  The voice went up an octave or so and spoke with mock emotion.  

                "Ooooh, Joshie," the voice cried with faux emotions.  "I _know _it's just a phase.  I know you don't love her.  I love you, Joshie, I really do.  Some day, I know, you'll come back to me."  A few fake sobs were thrown in for effect. 

                Josh gripped the phone and wondered what the hell to do.  Was this…did the killer have Clarice?  

                "I'll fix it, Josh," the voice continued.  "I _promise.  _I'll just chop off a few of her fingers and maybe cut out her tongue and poke her eye out with a chopstick.   Then you won't look at her anymore."  A colder laugh echoed in his ear.  "Yes, Josh, we girls _can _be that bitchy fighting over a guy.  Just wanted to check in.  I'll let you know what she has to say once I've done a bit of cutting."  

                "Hey!" Josh said, not sure what to do.  Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.  "If you hurt Agent Starling, I'll…," 

                "You'll love me and only me, Joshie," the voice said coquettishly again.  "It's…it's _meant to be.  _I just know it is.  Goodbye, my darling.  Goodbye."  

                There was a brief click of static.  Then there was nothing more.   


	9. Interrogation

The first thing Clarice was aware of was her right hand.  It was lying on a concrete floor.  The concrete was cold and rough against her palm.  Something else cold lay against her wrist.  She took in a shuddering gasp and coughed.  The stink of chloroform still invaded her nostrils.  

                She raised her head and glanced around her surroundings owlishly.  The chloroform still made her dizzy.  Her wrist was lying against a thick steel bar.  She raised up her head and saw more bars enclosing her.  A cage.  She was in a cage.  Clarice sat up, blinking and shaking her head to try and clear it.  

                The cage was in a basement.  The floor and walls were concrete.  There were lights overhead; simple, unenclosed bulbs.  Some were on, some were off.  On the other side of the room from her cage was a flight of stairs leading up to a closed door.  Not far from her was a table.  It was strewn with items that made Clarice wince.  A hacksaw, a few knives, a blowtorch, and some rope.  The blade of the hacksaw was stained a dark red.  Clarice's hands clenched at the sight.  

                Next to that, oddly, was a desk and chair.  A bookcase next to the desk held paperback books and manila folders.  She couldn't make out the titles of the books from here.  On the wall by the desk were two portraits of Dr. Lecter.  They looked like his original mugshot.  These prints were blown up to 11x17 size.  A floodlight mounted in the rafters of the basement lovingly illuminated them, as if the pictures of the cannibalistic psychiatrist were high art.  One of them was marked up carefully.  She couldn't tell exactly what the markings were, but from here, it looked like it was deliberate.  There was a circle drawn around one eye and some notes written next to it.  Likewise, there was a note on his cheekbones and another on his mouth.  Other notes up and down the entire picture. 

                Clarice thought about the young girl she had come to see.  Presumably she was her captor.  It took a moment or two for her head to clear, but it dawned on her sourly.  The girl had been comparing Dr. Lecter's face to her own and looking for points of similarity.  

                Part of her wanted to scream. Another part of her told her to clamp that off and look around the place and see what she could see.  Directly outside her cell were a bottle of spring water and a paper bag.  Cautiously, Clarice took the water bottle and sniffed the water.  It smelled OK, but she wasn't ready to try it yet.  After all, whoever had her had managed to overpower and kidnap her.  For all she knew, the bottle could contain poison or something.  

                The bag contained a sandwich.  White bread, a piece of lettuce, some roast beef, and a smear of Dijon mustard.  The paper bag rustled as Clarice continued inventorying its contents.  There was an apple and a Twinkie in the bag.  Still in its wrapping, Clarice noticed.  But a hypodermic needle could easily put God only knew what into it.  She put the paper bag down.  Her mouth was dry and she could still smell chloroform in the back of her throat.  

                "Hey," she called out.  Her voice was rusty and weak and it frightened her.  "Hey!  Can someone hear me!  I'm down here in the basement!"  

                Footsteps sounded on the stairs.  Clarice prudently shut her yap, figuring that it was her captor.  Sure enough, the figure standing in front of her was the pale girl.  She stared at Clarice, a small grin playing about the corner of her lips.  

                "Well," she said.  "_Hello, _Clarice."  Her head tilted like that of a parrot as she observed Clarice squatting in the cage.  

                "What are you doing to me?" Clarice asked.  "Why am I here?"  

                The girl grinned as if this was all _terribly _amusing.  She produced a plastic bottle and tossed it underhand to Clarice.  It proved to be a bottle of Nivea skin cream.  Clarice glanced down at it and back up the girl cautiously.  

                "It rubs the lotion into its skin, or it gets the hose," the girl informed her.  "It does this whenever it's told."  As if to verify the threat, the girl went behind the stairs and turned with a green hose in her hand.  She aimed it at Clarice.  

                Clarice stared blankly at her captor.  Was she serious?  Memories of Catherine Martin's tearful story went through her head.  The girl threw back her head and laughed.  Her laughter sounded disturbingly normal, as if she'd just played a hilarious trick on her captive.  

                "Oh, Clarice," she said.  "You're _so _gullible."  She grinned coldly at Clarice.  

                "Why are you keeping me here?" Clarice asked.   "Who _are _you?   You're not Amanda Taylor."  

                "Oh, no, I'm not," the girl agreed.  "She _is _a bona fide victim of Eddie Morgan, though.  My name is Alice.  That's all you need to know for now.  _I _want some information from _you, _Clarice.  Give me what I want and I'll be happy."  

                Clarice found herself trembling and tried to force herself to stop.  Her throat was dry.   Alice pulled up a chair by Clarice's cage and sat down companionably near it.  

                "Go ahead, eat your lunch," she said invitingly.  "There's no poison in it.  I'm not planning to kill you.  And even if I were, I wouldn't use poison.  That's so boring, don't you think?"  

                Clarice made no move to eat.  Alice sighed.  

                "Do you want me to drink some so you know for sure it isn't poisoned?" she said.  She sounded annoyed.  Clarice noticed some blood on the floor of her cage and her stomach lurched.  This was where James Winfield had been held captive and his hand chopped off.  It was a powerful reminder that her kidnapper was pretty dangerous.  

                But if she was willing to try it herself and she wanted something from Clarice, then the food was probably OK.  Carefully, Clarice drank some of the water and swished it around in her mouth.  It tasted fine.  She eyed Alice carefully.  

                "Now then," Alice said cheerfully.  "You're probably wondering what it is I brought you here for."  

                Clarice shifted and sat down.  The sandwich was quite good, actually.  The apple was tart and the Twinkie powerfully sweet.  But she was still wary.  

                "Yes," Clarice said.  "What is it you want from me?"  

                Alice grinned.  "I'm sure you've noticed my office over there," she said, and pointed at the pictures.  "Catch the resemblance?  I have.  I went back and looked, too."  She wiggled the fingers of her left hand at Clarice.  "I first noticed it when I was little.  Here I was, the only one in kindergarten who could count to eleven on her fingers."  

                Clarice felt the cold iron of the bars pressing in on her and tried to keep from trembling.  She was cold.  This made no sense at all.  Hannibal Lecter had never had children.  Nothing in his file ever indicated that he had.  This was…it just couldn't be.  But here it was.  It was nonsensical as a cat floating in midair, but there it was.  

                "You're..you're his daughter?" she asked.  

                Alice chuckled.  "Wow," she said, "_very _good.  I'm impressed.  How'd you figure that out?  Was it the fingers?  The eyes?" She bent down closer to Clarice's cage.  Her eyes reflected back redly at Clarice.  She let out another chuckle.  Clarice shrank back.  This might be Hannibal Lecter's daughter, but she had a screw or too loose that the good doctor did not.  She stared at Clarice with a little grin on her face and God only knew what going through her mind.  

                "Yes, indeedy," Alice said.  "My daddy is none other than Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  I never knew him, though.  That's where you come in, Reesey."  The grin widened.  "Can I call you Reesey?  It sounds friendlier than 'Clarice'.  Like we were old pals.  We're gonna be, so you might as well get used to it."  

                Clarice swallowed.  This wasn't promising.  

                "I don't….I can't see how I could help you with that," she said.  

                Alice let out a sigh.  "OK, Reesey, we'll do it your way," she said.  "Dr. Lecter disappeared once he escaped.   He popped up three years ago and killed ol' Mason Verger.  A victory for good taste, I say.  But anyways.  After that, he sawed open Paul Krendler's head and had a light supper of his brains."  She stuck out her arms stiffly in front of her and adopted a blank, savage look.  

                "Braaaaaains," she said.  "Moooooore braaaaaaaains."  

                Clarice Starling decided she was in extremely deep shit.  

                "Anyhow, Reesey old kid old sock, Dr. Lecter ran away from the house and disappeared.  Kaboom.  They found _you _there, doped to the gills.  The last person who ever saw Hannibal Lecter is you."  

                Clarice scooted forward and gripped the bars of her cage.  She tried to make and keep eye contact.  Was Alice actually insane, or was she just having fun?  It was hard to tell.  

                "Alice," she began, her voice catching, "I…I admit I was there, but--,"  

                "I _know _you were there," Alice said indignantly.  "I've read your 302's."  She drew herself up proudly and saluted something unseen.  "God bless the Freedom of Information act!  _All _that stuff is all over the Internet now."   

                "I haven't seen him since," Clarice said.  "Alice, now listen to me, please.  I…I think you're slightly off base here.  I can't give you Hannibal Lecter.  I don't _know _where he is.  I haven't seen him for a couple of years now."  

                Alice's head tilted and a slightly sarcastic and patronizing look crossed her face.  Clarice found herself thinking of Dr. Lecter in his cell.  The resemblance was scary.  How old had Alice been then?  Eight or so, from the looks of it.  But when the hell had Dr. Lecter had her?  And why the hell wasn't anything like that in the files?  If she survived long enough to see Quantico again, she would have to look and find out.  

                "_Ree-_sey," Alice said reproachfully, "he wrote you."  

                "A long time ago," Clarice said breathlessly.  

                "He wrote you letters," Alice repeated.  "Ooey gooey _wuv wetters, _awwwww."  She raised her clasped hands in front of her breasts and adopted a soppy expression worthy of a soap opera actress.   

                Clarice thought of the mocking letter Dr. Lecter had written her.  How it had made fun of her and cut her.  _I have followed with enthusiasm the course of your disgrace and public shaming.  My own never bothered me except for the inconvenience of being incarcerated.  _Hardly _her _idea of a love letter.  

                "Not exactly," Clarice said, and swallowed.  

                "Well," Alice said archly.  "I _know _you have some way to get in touch with him.  He would have left you one."  

                "No, he didn't," Clarice said, and felt a sinking feeling in her stomach.  Was _that _what Alice wanted?    

                "Oh, yes, he did," Alice said.  "I _know _he did.  He would have.  There's some way.  Some code.  Some little way that you know of to make him pop up.  And that's what I want from you, Reesey.  I want to meet my father.  And you can do that for me."  

                Clarice Starling gripped the bars and felt a great pang of fear in her gut.  Dr. Lecter had left the house on the Chesapeake without a word.  She had no way of contacting him.  She'd told him _not in a thousand years, _and that had been it.  She hadn't ever seen him again.  

                "Alice," Clarice began.  Her voice jigged and jagged up and down the scale.  "Alice, I…I have no way to contact Dr. Lecter.  I can't put you in touch with him."  

                "Yes, you can," Alice said promptly.  "You just don't want to."  

                "No, I _can't.  _I don't have any way.  He never left me a secret way to get in touch with him.  I _swear.  _Now look, Alice.  This is gone far enough.  Just…just let me go, OK?"  

                "Why?" Alice said.  "Then you'll go back to the FBI and they'll arrest me.  I may be missing something here, but I don't see the up side for me in that."  

                Clarice swallowed.  "I…I won't press charges, Alice. We'll just call this even.  A…a misunderstanding."  She realized that her foot was lying on a patch of dried blood and moved it hurriedly.  

A stormy look was beginning to come over Alice's face.  

                "Reesey, you're telling me fish stories," she said.  "Now look.  You'd press charges on me in a heartbeat.  You're an FBI agent.  Tell me what I want to know, not what you think I want to hear."  

                "Please," Clarice said, and displayed open palms.  Her hands shook.  "Alice, I _can't.  _If I could, I would.  I promise.  But I can't."  

                Alice stood and looked calmly at Clarice for a moment or two.  Then she struck.  Her hand flashed down and grabbed Clarice's right wrist.  She twisted it into a neat wristlock.  With her other hand she produced a pair of handcuffs and locked one onto Clarice's right wrist.  She let out a sigh and bent Clarice's pinky finger backwards.   

                "Give me your other hand," she said calmly.  

                Clarice clamped her teeth together and tried to struggle free of the wristlock. 

                "Give me your other hand," Alice repeated implacably.   She bent Clarice's pinky back further.  Clarice let out a pained grunt, keeping the scream locked in her laboring chest.  She realized this wasn't going to end well anyway, so she held out her left hand behind her.  Maybe once the kid was calm she could talk to her.  

                Once she was cuffed, Alice grabbed her ankles and chained those, too.  In her own way she was as careful as Barney had once been with her father.  _Dammit, _Clarice thought.  Then Alice strode around to the other side of the cage.  She squatted to unlock the door.  For a moment, Clarice thought of trying to charge her.  But all she would do would be knock her down.  Once she got up, she would be an angry lunatic and Clarice would still be in chains.  

                So she let Alice drag her out of the cage and stand her up.  Her hands flexed into useless fists.  

Alice began walking her over to another part of the basement.  Clarice tensed.  But she wasn't taking her over to the table with the bloodstained hacksaw on it.  Instead, she dragged Clarice over to where an old metal tub lay.  It was full of water.  Expertly, Alice kicked her legs out from under her, forcing her to her knees in front of the tub.  Her hand grabbed a handful of Clarice's hair and held her face over the surface of the water.  

                "We'll start with this, Reesey, and go from there, but you _will _tell me how to get Dr. Lecter's attention," Alice said.  There was no friendliness in her tone at all.  "Tell me now, and I'll just put you back in your cage.  I'm not doing this for my own pleasure, you know."  

                "Please," Clarice said.  "Alice, _I don't know.  _I can't tell you something I don't know.  I'd tell you in a minute if I knew, but--,"  

                "Have it your way," Alice said curtly, and forced Clarice's head into the water.  It was cold, shockingly cold against her scalp.  Clarice tried to gasp and got a mouthful of water.  She struggled valiantly, but to no avail.  The hand holding her head under was relentless. Her head whipped back and forth in the water.  Her breath plumed from her mouth in a stream of bubbles.  But the hand kept her under for several more seconds.  Her lungs ached.  She could feel dizziness spinning her head.  

                Then she was up, air tearing her lungs and making her chest ache.   Alice gave her a minute or two to cough and splutter.  Clarice tried to see where she was, but couldn't; there was only an inhuman grip on her hair and a voice behind her.  

                "OK, Reesey," Alice said shortly.  "How about now?  Ready to tell me now?"  

                "Please," Clarice whispered, and spat.  "Alice, I _can't_."  

                Alice let out a sigh.  "You know, from what they mentioned on the books, I'd have thought you would be smarter than this," she said.  "But I can keep this up all night."  She forced Clarice's face back into the water.  

                Again and again Clarice was forced into the water.  Again and again she was pulled up and asked if she would talk now.  Again and again she pleaded that she could not give her captor what she wanted.  Then the cycle would repeat.  Clarice was only tangentially aware of her tormentor; there was too much time spent with her head submerged, her lungs aching, her mind screaming.  

                Then, after several hours, it stopped.  Clarice was suddenly aware that she was back in the cage, still handcuffed.  The door slammed behind her and the lock clicked.  Then there were steps retreating up the stairs and the slam of a door.   

                Clarice Starling lay in a cage in Alice Pierpont's basement and shook her head, thinking she would surely die.  


	10. On the Hunt

                Josh Graham stared around the empty office and let out a sigh.  It had been about twenty hours since anyone had last seen Clarice Starling.  She had left the office at six PM last night, and the Marine guard on duty at Quantico's entrance had remembered seeing her.  After that, she had vanished.  

                Josh had received his mysterious phone call at seven or so.  Since then, Clarice had vanished as if into thin air.  He'd called and told Crawford as soon as it had happened.  Crawford had sent a few people over to Clarice's home and discovered that she was not there.  Neither was her car.  

                The leads were slim.  They were searching for her car.  DC police had not found it on the street.  But there were no shortage of privately owned parking garages in Washington.  Even then, Josh thought, there was no guarantee it would still be in the city or even have any evidence.  They hadn't been able to find squat for physical evidence of the UNSUB at the scene.  

                There are men who are brave and bluff and enjoy fighting.  Josh Graham was not one of these men.  Shy and retiring by nature, Josh was more the intellectual type.  He would fight if he had to, but he didn't particularly want to.  He took his example from his father.  Josh knew what scared him, but he was no coward.  

                So he was sitting in the office he'd been sharing with Clarice.  Share, that was a word.  It was her office.  He was a lodger here.  But he was also an investigator.  Josh walked up and down the office.  His eyes looked blank.  If you had seen him in there, wandering in his inexpensive suit and tie, you would have thought he was probably a space cadet.  Nothing was further from the truth.  Josh's father had taught him about boat motors. He'd also taught him about how he did what he did.  You tried to put yourself in your UNSUB's shoes.  You went where they had been and saw what they saw.  If you were capable enough and tried to think the way the UNSUB thought, you might be able to piece something together.  

                Josh didn't have the faintest idea what the Six Fingered Killer would want with Clarice.  So he used Clarice as his UNSUB.  It was far easier to step into her shoes than it was a killer's.  Besides, he was finding himself reticent to face the same demons that his father had faced and won such a Pyhrric victory against.  Though now it seemed he had little choice.  

                _OK, _he thought.  _Here I am, I'm Clarice Starling.  It's six o'clock, and I'm going home.  What's going to stop me from going home?  Why don't I go right home?  Instead, I meet up with someone who kidnaps me.  _

Had Clarice been waylaid?  It didn't make a lot of sense.  In order to successfully kidnap an adult through the use of force, the most effective way to do that was just before they were getting into their car.  You grabbed them, stuffed them in your car, and zoomed off.  That didn't fit the facts.  Clarice had been armed, and she would have gotten into her car at the parking lot at Quantico.  It was an armed Marine base here.  The Marines who patrolled the base didn't take kindly to random good squads roaming the grounds.  

                Had she had car trouble?  Or perhaps seen someone who did?  That was possible.  Josh raised his tape recorder to his lips.  

                "Check DC and Arlington police records to check for disabled cars," he dictated.  

                Even as he said it, he began reconsidering the idea.  Clarice wouldn't have stopped unless she thought that the person needed her help _and _that she would be safe in helping them.  That meant she probably wouldn't have stopped for a man unless he had his arm in a sling or something.  She might've stopped for a woman.  But Clarice was also the one who had suspected that the Six Fingered Killer was a woman from the get-go.  The Bureau didn't give Clarice a lot of credit.  Josh Graham did.  

                Clarice Starling had a lot of common sense, finely honed instincts, and a big old .45 that would ruin the day of anyone who chose to attack her.  Whoever had kidnapped her had managed to overcome those things.  How?  

                _Maybe it was Dr. Lecter, _his mind whispered.  

                Josh pondered that thought.   The elderly cannibal could have definitely pulled it off.  Was Clarice wrong, perhaps? Was Dr. Lecter the Six Fingered Killer?  According to FBI files, Dr. Lecter now had the normal amount of fingers on his left hand.  Was it even possible to re-transplant a finger?  Why would Dr. Lecter do that?  

                But Clarice Starling knew better than anybody that if she ended up in the good doctor's hands, the results were likely to be messy.  Had the doctor tried to kidnap her, she would have fought back.  Wouldn't she?  Of course she would.  She had no desire to end up simmered in _au jus _and served with a nice red wine.   

                Still, Josh decided, he would check the files for Dr. Lecter's _modus operandi _anyway.  

                Someone, somewhere, had gotten Clarice Starling to deviate from her normal procedure and not go home from Quantico.  There, they had managed to kidnap her.  He had to find out where Clarice had gone and why she had gone there.  Only then could he find her.  The clock was ticking.  

                …

                Josh Graham had suspected Dr. Hannibal Lecter in the disappearance of Clarice Starling.  In this he was mistaken.  Dr. Lecter, the murderer of nine people, was as innocent as the newfallen snow in the kidnapping of Clarice Starling.  He learned about it a day later than his former adversary's son.  Dr. Lecter had satellite TV and got the biggest package.  He had access to just about any news channel in the United States that he wanted.  

                He was sitting in his den, smiling gently as he watched a Washington, DC news channel.  The distance of thousands of miles left him pleased and feeling safe.  As the newscaster came on, he felt less pleased.  

                "In Washington tonight, police search for a missing FBI agent," the newscaster said.  "Special Agent Clarice Starling, currently assigned to the Six Fingered Killer investigation, has vanished after leaving Quantico last night.  Police and FBI sources would not state if Agent Starling's disappearance is related to the Six Fingered Killer, but the possibility cannot be ignored."  A picture of Clarice appeared on the screen to the left and above the newscaster.  "Anyone with any information on Agent Starling's disappearance is asked to call the FBI."  She rattled off a number that Dr. Lecter did not bother to take down.    

                Dr. Lecter privately thought it might have been interesting to meet the Six Fingered Killer.  Now, it occurred to him that Clarice might need help.  The FBI could not save Clarice; they moved too slowly.  The only reason that Buffalo Bill hadn't killed Catherine Martin was sheer, dumb, simple luck.  Well, that and Clarice's instincts, Dr. Lecter amended.  But someone had anesthetized those instincts and had her in their grasp.  

                Dr. Lecter thought about Clarice Starling bound and alone in the dark.  He envisioned a madman approaching her, tools clinking in his hands.  The thought made him angry and he had to stand for a moment and wait for his heart rate to settle. He pondered and then sat down.  

                If Clarice needed him, he would be there.  But he could not go off half-cocked.  What if all this was an elaborate trap to draw him into the open?  He'd learned after Mason.  Jacky-boy might well try the same thing.  Stash Clarice down in Quantico, fake a kidnapping, and try to catch either the Six Fingered Killer or himself.  

                He would have to watch and wait.  He wanted to see if they would slip up somewhere.   At least until he was sure that Clarice needed him.  Ruthlessly, he quashed the part of him that wanted to get on a plane and get back to the United States.  

…

                The basement was exceptionally quiet.  Clarice found this out very quickly.  It was amazingly creepy.  She tried to yell at first, but all that she got was echoes.  No one came.  All that was there was her, her and Alice's torture and murder equipment.  Sourly, Clarice thought that Alice had a very effective basement for a serial killer.  As if she was a comic-book criminal.  

                The cage itself that Clarice was imprisoned in was definitely top shelf.  The bars were thick iron.  She didn't know how the cage itself was put together, but she couldn't get to any bolts or anything.  Even if she could've, her only tools were her hands and a Twinkie wrapper.  

                The morning after Alice had tried drowning her, she'd awoken to find the other woman reaching in the cage to take off her handcuffs.  That was as much liberty as Clarice got.  For her bathroom needs, she was provided with a bucket.  That was disgusting, but Clarice didn't have much choice except to deal with it.  

                For most of the day, she was alone.  No one came, no matter how hard she screamed.  She thought Alice was in the house with her, but she wasn't sure.  It was pretty obvious that Alice was disturbed, but she might be able to keep up a job.  She had paid for all this stuff somehow, and it wasn't the sort of thing they sold at Target.  

She knew perfectly well that Alice was leaving her alone in order to scare her.  They did it with arrested criminals.  Lock them in a cell somewhere, drop some hints about how they were going to prison for a long, long time, then leave 'em there for a while and let 'em think.  The worst tortures were always the ones your own imagination came up with.  

                Clarice discovered quickly that knowing that trick didn't make it any less effective. 

                Part of it was the décor.  There was a harpoon hanging on the wall across from her.  A frigging _harpoon.  _Did she think she was Captain Ahab or something?  Next to it was a rack containing a sword and an axe.  Clarice didn't think much of her captor's taste in interior decorating.  But she could easily envision Dr. Lecter's unknown daughter picking up the harpoon and approaching her cage with it.  

                She'd tried yelling.  For two hours she'd screamed for someone, anyone, to help her.  No one came.  Not only that, there were no sounds at all.  The only time a sound came from the basement that she did not make herself was occasionally when the furnace clicked on and off again.  

                That evening, Alice had come down and cheerfully demanded Clarice's clothing.  She'd traded Clarice a green jumpsuit and her dinner for it.  Clarice, mindful of the harpoon, had given up her clothing willingly.  Alice had dragged over a few boards from a pile she'd had.  The clatter of lumber had seemed unbelievably loud.  Alice had puttered over her art project on the other side of the basement.  Clarice hadn't been able to see.  She'd heard a nail gun bark a few times and gotten a sick feeling.  This _wasn't _going to be good.  After that, she'd been left alone again, incarcerated and isolated within Alice's private prison.  Now she felt that she had lost her face.  

                Overhead, she heard a rattle of keys in the door.  Not the front door; Clarice had discovered she could not her that.  Alice could come and go as she pleased without Clarice detecting her.  Then there were two voices, both female.  

                "Please, please," one voice said.  Clarice found her heart sinking.  She couldn't place that voice.  "Please let me go.  I won't tell anybody.  I promise."  

                "Not yet," came Alice's voice.  She sounded quite pleased with herself.  "Come on down to my basement.  I have someone I'd like you to meet."  

                Footsteps echoed on the stairs.  Clarice bowed her head and found herself shaking with anger.  She'd always felt for the victims, but never before had she ever been expected to witness a victim.  What was worse was that she knew she wouldn't be able to help.  She'd be trapped here, in the cage.  

                A woman approximately her own height and age stepped down into the basement.  Chains on her ankles rattled across the floor.  She gave Clarice a fearful glance. Behind her, grinning and cocky, Alice Pierpont stepped down into the basement.  Her hand was on the woman's arm.  She piloted the woman across the basement and made her sit down.  

                "Hi, Reesey," she said.  "Meet Christine. Christine, this is Reesey.  She's also known as Agent Clarice Starling of the FBI, but we're good buddies, so she lets me call her Reesey."   She giggled as if this was all _terribly _amusing.  "Oh, and also, she's not going to be able to do much in the way of helping.  Being in a cage will do that to you, you know.  Now tell you what, Christine.  I'm going to take your handcuffs and leg chains off.   See that harpoon over there?  If you try and run or do anything naughty, I'll take that harpoon and stick it right through your belly.  And that'll definitely ruin your day, Chrissy.  So may I suggest that humoring me is the best course of action."  

                Christine sniffled.  Clarice gritted her teeth.  Alice let out another giggle and removed her prisoner's restraints.  She pointed at where Clarice's clothing was neatly folded on the table.  

                "Take off your clothes and put those clothes on," Alice directed.  For a moment, Clarice wanted to scream to the other prisoner to fight her, to stand up.  But the odds were against the victims overthrowing their captor.  Clarice was caged and Christine appeared too terrorized.  And Alice was much stronger than she looked.  

                Her hopes were dashed when the crying woman simply complied with her captor's dictates and then stood there trembling.  Alice tilted her head and grinned.  She walked the other woman over to where she'd been banging before and made her lie down.  Clarice could make out a crosspiece.  It took only a minute or two for Alice to tie her victim down at the wrists and ankles.  Then she crossed to the table and hit a button on a CD player standing oddly next to the knives and weapons of Alice's extensive collection.  A lone female voice began to sing.   Alice sang along.  Her voice was oddly pleasant to listen to.  One did not expect serial killers to sing prettily, but she did.  

_Every finger in the room is pointing at me  
I wanna spit in their faces then I get afraid of what that could bring  
I got a bowling ball in my stomach, I got a desert in my mouth  
Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now_

Alice quit singing and glanced over at Clarice.  

"So, Reesey," she said conversationally.  "Have you thought about maybe telling me what I want to know?  It might save some mess here."  

"Alice," Clarice whispered, and pressed her hands against the bars.  "Don't.  Please, don't.  That woman's innocent, she has nothing to do with..with what you want."  

Alice tilted her head and smirked.  She spoke along with the song as it was playing.  "Just what God needs," she quipped.  "One more victim."  She picked up the nail gun that she had used to construct the cross and walked over to the woman bound to it.   The song continued.  

_Why do we, Crucify ourselves, every day,  
I crucify myself, nothing I do is good enough for you,  
Crucify myself every day and my heart is sick of being in chains._

Clarice realized what Alice meant to do.  She threw herself against the bars and shouted in frustration.  Alice paid her little heed, glancing up only occasionally to see what Clarice would do.  

Clarice pounded the bars of her cage with her fists.  Alice looked over at her.  She _had _to give the monster what she wanted.  There was no way she was going to let her do this.  Clarice was strong; she could take whatever Alice threw at her.  But this was her weakness.  Alice had herself a lamb she meant to kill.  

"Alice!" Clarice shouted.  

"Reesey!" Alice replied.  "You seem upset.  Is something wrong?"  

"Alice, _don't do this._" Clarice hissed.  

"Or you'll do what?" Alice asked, and seemed interested.  

"Please," Clarice implored.  "Show some humanity, will you?  Don't…don't do this.  It's me you…you want to torture."  

"Feeling tortured now?" Alice said, and held the nail gun over Christine's wrist.  Christine screeched in terror and writhed.  Alice paid her no heed, watching Clarice instead.  

"Goddammit, yes," Clarice growled.  "Listen…why are you doing this to an innocent person?"

"She's not innocent," Alice said, as if that made it all better.  "She's part of dear Mommy's Snob Brigade.  Part of the bitchy part of Baltimore's jet set."  She stuck her lower jaw out a bit and spoke with a burlesque Harvard lockjaw.  Crazily, Clarice found herself thinking of Mr. Howell from _Gilligan's Island _reruns.   "Ahhh, yes, Lovey, we only associate with propah bluebloods, don't you know.  Scum like FBI agents and serial killers don't meet up with our high standards."  

"Alice, please," Clarice pleaded.  

"Tell me what I want to know," Alice said lightly.  "Do that for me and I'll be merciful.  Otherwise, you might want to stand up, because it's gonna get messy."  She chuckled and began to sing again.  

"Got a kick for a dog, that's begging for love 

I got to have my suffering, so I can have my cross," she sang.

"I've got a cat named Easter, he says will you ever learn 

You're just an empty cage girl, if you…kill the bird."

Clarice Starling, currently in a cage and named for a bird herself, heard that and shivered.  But Alice had said she would be merciful.  She took in a deep, ragged breath and tasted copper in her mouth.  

"_International Herald-Tribune," _she said in defeat.  

Alice tilted her head and grinned widely.  "I'm listening," she said encouragingly.  

Clarice exhaled and leaned her head against the bars.  Part of her screamed that this would be incredibly foolish.  But you did what you had to when you needed to save a lamb.  She didn't bother lying; God only knew what Alice would do if she lied and Alice caught her at it.  

"In the agony column," Clarice continued.  "Make out an ad in the agony column to A. A. Aaron.  Put whatever you want in there.  Sign it Hannah."  She wondered idly what Alice would do to her now that she'd coughed up the information Alice wanted.  "He…he reads it.  He'll see an ad like that.  You can get in touch with him that way."  

Alice's brow furrowed.  "That's _it_?" she demanded.  "A goddam classified ad?  He's on the Ten Most-Wanted List and all you need to do to get in touch with him is a _classified ad_?"  

"Yes," Clarice said.  "That's it.  That'll get a message to him.  Whether or not he responds is something I have no control over."  

Alice stood up and walked away from her captive on the cross.  Her boots were quiet on the concrete floor.  She eyed Clarice distantly, her arms crossed.  Clarice could see her trying to figure out if she was lying or not. That didn't bother Clarice; her captor looked sane when she did that.  As if there was something in that mind that Clarice could comprehend.  

"I'm not lying," Clarice said.  "That's…that's it, Alice.  That's all I got.  You can get a message to Dr. Lecter that way, but there's no telling if he'll answer it or not."  

"What did he want you to tell him in the ad?"  Alice asked, frowning.  

Clarice sighed.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  "He wanted to know if the lambs had stopped screaming," she said.  "But he'll notice any ad addressed to A.A. Aaron and signed Hannah.  When Verger…when Verger framed me, he put an ad in an Italian paper that warned Dr. Lecter.  That's…that's all."  

Alice's eyes narrowed and she studied Clarice intently.  She seemed angry.   As if Clarice's answer was too easy.  But it was the truth.  

"There's _got _to be more than that," she said.  

"Alice," Clarice said, "I'm not lying to you.  Now c'mon.  That's it.  How about letting her go?"  

Alice shook her head.  She stalked back across the table and lifted Clarice Starling's .45 from the stuff scattered on the table.  Clarice saw it and screamed in fear and fury.  So did Christine.  

"I promised I would be merciful," Alice said.  "And I will keep that promise with due care.  But I'm going to have a little chat with you, Reesey.  You're not out of the woods yet.  I don't think you're telling me the entire truth.  There's more than that."

Clarice reached out through the bars and displayed her bare palms.  

"There isn't," she implored.  "I swear to God, that's all there is.  Please, just put the gun down and talk to me.  Can't you talk to me?  You don't _need _to kill anyone."  

"You're not telling me everything," Alice said stubbornly.  She raised the gun and sighted down the muzzle as if unfamiliar with the gun. 

"Put the gun down," Clarice said, all too aware that Alice might be Hannibal Lecter's daughter, but she didn't have his self-control.  Or, seemingly, his ability to tell when someone was lying.  "I'll chat with you.  That's fine.  You're in control here.  Just put it down and let's talk."    

"No," Alice said shortly.  Her face hardened in anger and distrust.

                The echo of the .45 was deafening against the concrete walls.  


	11. In Memoriam

                _Author's note:  Just for Morbid's sake, this chapter is all Josh. Would the rest of you catch her if she swoons?  _

Josh Graham sat in his apartment, trying to think.   Between the twin problems of the Six Fingered Killer and Clarice's disappearance, it was hard to concentrate.  Every time he tried to focus his attention on one,  the other popped into mind.  Were the two related?  Josh thought that they were.  Unfortunately, they had no real evidence in Clarice's disappearance at all.  

                They were working on it. The only thing they did have was a phone number.  Checking the FBI's phone records had popped up a number that had called Clarice's office shortly before her disappearance.  Tracing it back had led to a pay phone at Union Station.  It wasn't much to go on.  A forensics team had gone over the phone and found nothing.  No prints.  No hair.  Nothing to go on. 

                There had been no ransom demands.  Josh thought privately it was likely that Clarice's kidnapper was either the Six Fingered Killer or Dr. Lecter.  Or maybe the two were one and the same.  Images of the Six Fingered Killer's crime scenes flitted through his head as he tried to concentrate on Clarice.  Why would the Six Fingered Killer want Clarice?  Was it because of that stupid _Tattler _article?  It seemed pretty obvious that the Six Fingered Killer read the _Tattler; _that was the reason Winfield had been targeted.   

                Images of Clarice being forced to drink Drano or having a sword rammed through her chest appeared in his mind.  Josh exhaled.  He _had _to think straight and not be distracted.  Maybe some music would help.  

                Josh Graham was, to all views, a straitlaced and conservative young man.  He wore white shirts and wing tips to the office.  But his tastes in music were rather different.  He selected an Eminem CD and put it in his CD player.  He rather liked Eminem; the man could say things that Josh couldn't bring himself to say.  

                It also helped him to banish the thoughts of torture and mayhem from his mind.  Instead he simply sang along, agreeing that Eminem was the real Slim Shady and any other Slim Shady was just imitating.  Wouldn't the real Slim Shady please stand up?  

                "Fuck it," Eminem pronounced at the end.  "Let's all stand up."  Josh complied with his dictates.  Then his eyes widened.   Standing in front of him was an older man, slim and easy in a flannel shirt and jeans.  

                "Dad!" he said, and blushed a bit.  

                Will Graham eyed his son dubiously for a moment.  "Nice music you're listening to," he said.  His hair was gray and his eyes a bit bloodshot.  His skin was tanned and leathery from years spent in the sun.    He extended his hand to his son.  "Your door was open," he explained.  "You ought to lock that."  

                Josh nodded, his eyes wide.  "Uh…yeah, I guess I should.  What're you doing here?"  

                Will shrugged.  "Thought I'd come up and see you," he said.  "Work's been slow.  I left the shop with my partner; he can handle the repairs we've got going."  

                Josh turned off the Eminem CD before his father heard Eminem espousing the virtues of drinking and using drugs.  "It's…it's good to see you," he said.  Will nodded.  

                "I heard about Agent Starling," he said.  "And your killer. Tough case.  What do you think?"  

                _My killer, _Josh thought.  Will Graham had caught three killers on his own.  Now he owned a boat-motor sales and repair shop down in Marathon.  The catching of killers was now something he left to his son.  The Six Fingered Killer was now Josh's killer, as if capturing him _(or her, _Josh reminded himself, _I think this one is a her)_ was a trophy on the wall. Josh Graham, big-game hunter.  

                "As far as Clarice's disappearance goes, we're looking into it," Josh said.  "Not much evidence to go on yet.  Somebody called her from a pay phone.  No fingerprints or any other evidence."  

                Will nodded.  "What does that tell you?" he asked.  

                Josh shrugged.  "Not much," he said.  "It tells me the kidnapper wore gloves and wiped off the phone before they hung up.  That doesn't mean squat, though.  It's winter.  _Everybody _is wearing gloves.  And wiping down the phone would've taken seconds.  You can get phone wipes from Staples, for God's sake."  

                Will's eyes gleamed.  "What _else _does that tell you, though?"  

                Josh pondered.  He should know this.  If the Six Fingered Killer had wiped down the phone, that meant…

                "That the Six Fingered Killer knows something about forensic evidence techniques," he began uncertainly.  "Lots of people know about fingerprints, but not everyone thinks that a hair could get caught in the phone receiver.  But we already _knew _that.  No physical evidence of the UNSUB at any of the scenes.   No prints, no hair, no skin flakes.  She's good."  

                Will raised an eyebrow.  For a moment, he found himself feeling both nervous and content.  Here he was, talking shop with his son.  But he was afraid of what monsters Josh might face.  He knew them all too well.  But his son's choice of words interested him.  

                "She?"  

                "Clarice thought—Clarice _thinks—_that the killer may be female," Josh explained.  "I think she's on to something."  

                "That would be new."  

                "New as far as violent killings, yes," Josh said.  "But there are plenty of women who have committed serial offenses before."  He ran down the reasons why he and Clarice believed the killer to be female.  

                "What else can you tell me about the UNSUB?" Will asked.  

                Josh smiled nervously. "I'll show you the file," he said, and reached for a manila folder on the table.  Will chuckled and shook his head.  

                "No," he said.  "I'm all done with that.  I'm a boat motor mechanic now and that's what I like doing.  I want to know what _you _think."  

                Josh took a few moments to think.  He felt slightly nervous with his dad's cool blue eyes on him.  Crazily he was reminded of being in first grade at a play.  

                "Okay," he began.  "I think the killer's between twenty and thirty.  Young enough to get a job at a strip club, which is where the Baker scene took place.   I think she's about five foot five or five-six.  A lot stronger than you'd expect a woman to be.  She managed to control two victims at the same time.  Restrained or not, that means she was pretty confident.  She drives a van or a truck or something.  I'm thinking a van.  I also don't think that's her primary vehicle, because the kind of van she needs is gonna be one without windows.  Not a minivan.  Not the sort of vehicle you expect to see a woman driving.  She's bright and she's confident; she's not going to raise any eyebrows by motoring around in a cargo van.  But that's just a feeling I have."  

                Will nodded.  "Good," he said.   

                Josh's eyes were filmed with thought as he continued.  "If the killer makes a mistake, it'll be because of cockiness.  We know the killer has six fingers on her left hand.  It's her signature.  I think she's got a house, too.  Somewhere private.  She chopped off Winfield's hand; it's hard to do that in an apartment without the neighbors hearing.   She reads the _Tattler.  _She's got money – she can maintain and operate a car, probably two.  Some knowledge of chemistry, because she built a time-delay fuse to burn Winfield with."  

                For some reason that made Will flinch.  

                "I'd bet she has a juvenile record but I don't think there's an adult record.  This girl's smart, dad.  She learned from her mistake before.  I think there's a juvenile record for a violent offense, but that doesn't mean much because it's probably sealed.  She's got money.  I think she's got a white-collar job.  Something that gives her time to herself, and enough time and money to be able to plan out and commit her crimes."  

                Will nodded.  A slight, pained smile crossed his face.  Josh was good, he thought.  He just needed experience.  Though, given the choice, he would have rather Josh worked with him in the boat-motor repair shop. 

                A knock at the door made both men turn.  Josh opened the door to see Section Chief Jack Crawford standing there calmly, flanked by two agents.  Crawford's eyes scanned him, then his father.  

                "Will!"  Crawford smiled and stuck his hand out smoothly.  "Good to see you.  Didn't expect to see you.  Though an extra pair of eyes is always good."  

                Will accepted the handshake with some frostiness.  "An…extra pair of eyes?" he questioned.  

                "Yep.  Josh, I need you to come down to Rock Creek Park.  We've got something."  

                Josh stepped forward obediently.  "Okay," he said.  "Is it related to Agent Starling's disappearance, or the Six Fingered Killer?"  

                Crawford's face tightened up a bit.  "Both," he said.  "I'll brief you in the car.  Will, why don't you come on down?"  

                Will sighed.  "I'm not on duty anymore," he protested.  

                "Yeah, and look, you know I wouldn't force you to do anything," Crawford smiled.  "Just have a look and tell me what you think."  

                Will shuddered and let out a long sigh.  He eyed Crawford with the pained look of a man asked to take up a massive burden he has already shouldered for far too long.  But in the end, he nodded.  

                "Come on, guys," Crawford said.  A car was waiting downstairs for them, lights already going.  They got in and drove off through DC traffic.  It wasn't that far to the park.  Normally, the park was closed to vehicular traffic, but a uniformed cop manning a barrier waved the big Crown Victoria through.  

                "So what did you find?" Josh asked from the back seat.  

                Crawford turned around and stared at Josh thoughtfully through the screen.  "A body," he said thoughtfully.  

                A pang shot through Josh's stomach.  He put his hands on the screen as if pleading.  "Is it..is it Clarice?" he asked.  

                Crawford pondered.  "We don't know," he said.  "We'll run the fingerprints once we get the corpse to the pathologist.  We want you to…to see the body as it is before we take it down."    

                The driver pulled over at a heavily wooded section of the park.  Both Grahams glanced curiously at Crawford.  Crawford shrugged.  

                "We have to walk from here," he explained.  

                They hiked over the wooded area for perhaps a hundred feet.  Josh didn't see anything.  Trees filled the area and covered the sky in a leafy canopy.  Then they walked around a large oak tree, and Josh gasped.  

                Stuck into the ground was a large wooden cross.  Tied to the cross was the corpse of a woman.  Her arms were both tied to the arms of the cross and nailed with a stout nail through the wrists.  She was dressed in a blue pants suit and a white shell – the clothing Clarice had been wearing when she went missing.   Her hair was dark reddish brown and hung in her face.  She was quite, quite dead.  

                She had no face.  Someone had gone over it with a knife, mutilating it.  Muscle hung loose from where it had been severed from the bone.  One eye was grotesquely visible.  The eyelid and skin surrounding it had been carefully removed.  It stared obscenely out at the officers surrounding it.  

                Josh closed his eyes and let his breath out of his nostrils in a measured gasp.  The facial mutilations were bad, but he also saw immediately what they had been put there for.  Either the woman wasn't Clarice, or the killer had been trying to camouflage the bullet wound to the forehead.  But it was there, plain as day.  The woman had been shot in the head and killed that way.  Josh suspected the mutilations were post-mortem.  For the sake of the woman on the cross, he hoped they were. 

                Tucked into the front jacket pocket was an FBI ID card.  Josh pulled on a pair of latex gloves from a nearby evidence technician setting up his stand.  He took the leather case by a corner and glanced at it.  It proclaimed the body to be Agent Clarice Starling of the FBI.  

                Josh swallowed nervously.  The tail of the blouse was pulled out, and the woman's navel was open.  There was a fingerprint just below the woman's navel in blood.  Josh glanced at that.  No other prints anywhere else.  

                "Do we know if this is Clarice yet?" Josh asked.  

                Crawford shook his head.  "We'll run the prints as soon as we get her down and off to the pathologist's," he said shortly.  

                "Check the bullet wound to the forehead, too," Josh mused.  "Um, I mean, we should, sir."  

                Crawford let out a short chuckle.  "Don't stand on rank, Graham," he said calmly.  "I never do.  Investigate the case, that's what I want you to do."  

                Josh thought he ought to feel sad that a fellow FBI agent was dead.  He found himself more icily calm than he thought.  Investigate the case, that's what he had to do.  He could grieve for Clarice later.  For now he had to do his job.   He didn't know where the icy control came from.  He didn't want to think about it, either.

                He thought the fingerprint was an immediate red herring.  No other prints anywhere else, and the killer was smarter than _that.  _There might be a print on the shoes, maybe, or possibly something off the face where the killer had attempted to create a face-ectomy, but the print on the stomach was too obvious.  

                Josh's stomach roiled in a big lazy flip-flop as he reached for the tail of the blouse.  He felt vaguely dirty, exposing the corpse like this.  But it had to be done.  

                Two inches above the stomach was a red mark. Josh inhaled sharply and unbuttoned the bottom two buttons of the blouse to display the mark.  What he saw made him let out a sharp gasp.  

                On the stomach of the corpse, smeared but still clear, was a bloody, six-fingered palm print.  

                Josh closed his eyes.  The icy control he'd managed to conjure up vanished suddenly.  He turned and strode across the scene with his eyes closed.  The boundary of the police's turf was marked with yellow crime-scene tape.  Josh stood just beyond the boundary and took a few deep breaths to clear his head.  Crawford stayed behind him, watching him calmly.  

                Footsteps on the soft loamy earth behind him made him turn.  His father stood there, looking somewhat somber.  He observed his progeny calmly.  

                "You OK, Josh?"  

                Josh nodded.  "It's not that," he said.  "I've seen gory crime scenes before.  It's something else."  

                Will Graham reached into his chest pocket and withdrew a pack of Camels.  Calmly, he lit one and then offered the pack to Josh.  "Cigarette?"  

                Josh's eyes widened in surprise.  "Dad!"  

                "What?  You're an adult now.  Take one, it'll clear your head."  

                Josh took the cigarette and accepted a light from his father.  The smoke was harsh and hurt his lungs.  He did not cough.  Instead, he simply held the smoke in for a moment or two, letting the nicotine bubble its way into his bloodstream.  

                "You've got more experience with smoking than I'd like you to have," Will observed. 

                Josh smiled tightly at his father and took another drag on the cigarette.  

                "If it wasn't the gore that bothered you," Will asked calmly, "then what was it?"  

                Josh took in a deep breath of air, not smoke.  His lips pulled tight over his teeth as he thought.  

                "I knew," he said.  

                Will nodded.  "Knew what?"  

                Josh took another drag on the cigarette and exhaled smoke into the forest air.  "I saw that fingerprint," he began.  "And I just knew.  This killer's too smart to leave a fingerprint.  That was a total red herring.  The killer put it there so I would find it.  I saw it and I knew that if I opened up the blouse I'd find the handprint.  I saw it…and it was like a message.  I _knew, _Dad.  I knew what it was the minute I saw it."  

                Will patted his son's shoulder.  "It's not easy, is it?  You get inside the killer's head.  But that's what'll help you catch him.  Think the way the monster thinks and you'll be able to hunt him.  But…it can be hard."  He jerked his head back in Crawford's direction.  "Crawford won't always allow for it.  He wants you to produce for him, twenty-four-seven.  He doesn't exactly realize what it's like to be able to get in the head of an UNSUB and wonder if you're going to be able to get out.  You'll learn, though."  

                A crowd of gawkers had assembled, and the uniforms were busy keeping them away from the atrocity among the trees.  Both Grahams stared out at the gathering crowd.  Everyone had to come and flock to the horror, Josh thought.  Come and see how monstrous someone can be.  

                His eye settled on a young woman about his age.  She stood off to the side, alone.  Pretty cute, he thought.  She wore a dress, knee-high boots, and tights, all black.  Her hair was as black as her clothing, setting off her pale skin.  Josh was reminded of the goth-chick crowd in high school.   Idly he wondered if she wanted to come and check out the death scene.  Maybe it was worth goth points or something, he thought, and felt a lot older than he actually was.  For just a moment, her eyes touched his.  She looked away and suddenly turned and strode away as if embarrassed.  He could hear the faint _clop clop _of her boot heels receding along the roadway.   He noticed idly that she kept her left hand stuffed in her purse, as if she was looking for cigarettes or gum and had forgotten her hand was in there.

                The rest of the gawkers milled around, hoping to catch a glance of the corpse.  A medical examiner's van pulled up.  Josh saw someone approach the scene with a chainsaw in hand.  Of course; they'd have to cut the cross off.  Leaving her on the cross was the smart way to do it.  Once they'd had a chance to examine the corpse.  

                _All the evil, _Josh thought.  _We photograph it and measure it and weigh it and scan it,, but we can't stop it.   The best we can do is track it and contain it._

                Then they were carrying the corpse, stuffed into a big body bag, across to the van.  Crawford was walking back towards them.  He hailed them with a wave.  

                "Let's head over to the pathologist," he said.  "Josh, I know you want to know when we ID her.  Come on with me.  It'll be better for you, I think."  

                Will gave him a slightly distanced look, but didn't say anything.  They headed back to the car and piled in.  Then they went off to see if Josh Graham's partner was dead.  


	12. The Other Side

                Clarice was trembling.  

                It had been a day since Alice had shot the woman she'd tied to the cross.  Another dull, boring day in her cage.  She was hoping she might be able to convince Alice to let her out.  A shower would be nice.  Then her mind would flit back to Buffalo Bill, and Dr. Lecter in his cell.  _Buffalo Bill has a two-story house.  _Then Crawford, explaining how to hang someone.  _You use stairs.  Stairs are familiar.  Bring them up the stairs with a hood on and boot them off the bottom riser with the noose attached to the landing railing.  _Then a shower didn't seem like such a good idea anymore.  

                She had no illusions about her captor.  Alice was dangerous and sadistic.  She killed without compunction.  In some ways, Clarice thought, Alice was more dangerous than her father.  Dr. Lecter had done horrible things because he enjoyed them, that was true.  Awards for Citizen of the Year were not in order for the psychiatrist.  But Alice was worse because she had less self-control.  

Locked in the cage and left alone for long periods of time, Clarice had nothing to do but think.  She did not have Dr. Lecter's memory palace, but she was able to recall the information that was her stock in trade with an ease that surprised her.  The cage wasn't tall enough to stand up in, but it was wide enough to lie down in, and Clarice would lie down and ponder her situation.  It worked surprisingly well.  Perhaps profilers ought to be locked in cages more often.  If she ever got out of here, she'd suggest it to Crawford.  The look on his face would be priceless.  

Alice was more like a classic sociopath than her father was, Clarice decided.  Whereas Dr. Lecter had the normal abilities of self-control, Alice did not.  She was quick to anger and impulsive. There wasn't any sort of remorse or conscience that Clarice could see.  She hadn't seen enough of her captor to determine if she was a pathological liar, like most sociopaths were, or if she was more like Dr. Lecter, who did not do such things.  

She heard the basement door unlock and heard footsteps on the stairs.  Despite herself, she tensed.  Alice hadn't tortured her since she'd given up the agony column as a means of getting in touch with Dr. Lecter.  That was good.  Still, unpleasant thoughts of the other shoe dropping tormented her.  

Alice came down into the basement and glanced at her for a moment or two.  She held a tray in both hands.  There was a covered plate on it and plastic silverware.  A tantalizing smell of cooked stew arose from it.  Clarice hadn't been fed terribly well during her captivity and her stomach growled audibly at the sight and smell of the food.  

"Here," Alice said emotionlessly, and approached the cage.  She set the tray down just outside the cage and then took several steps back.  Clarice sat up and reached through the bars.  It was a stew, thick and meaty and good.  She pulled the bowl into her cage and began to eat the stew hungrily.  Meat and potatoes and broth.  God, it was good.  

Feeling full and sated for the first time since Alice had captured her, Clarice took the paper napkin and wiped her face.  Also on the tray was a steaming mug.  Clarice glanced at it curiously.  It was brown, but it didn't seem to be coffee.  She sampled it and found it quite tasty.  It was sweet and spicy.  

"Thank you," Clarice said.  "What is this stuff?"  

"Chai," Alice said.  "It's Indian.  Tea and spices and milk.  Well, that's the instant stuff, but it's okay."  

Alice was sitting on the floor, perhaps seven feet away from the cage.  Her arms were around her knees and she balanced on the heels of the boots.  She was dressed all in black:  black dress, black boots, black tights.   She watched Clarice carefully.  It was odd.  She didn't seem cocky anymore.  In fact, she looked down.  

"I saw Josh today," she said suddenly, as if Josh Graham was a friend of hers instead of an agent assigned to track her down.  

Clarice tried to sidle around in the cage to a comfortable position.  "Josh Graham?" she asked.  

Alice nodded and seemed somehow lost.   In the darkness of the basement, her head and hands seemed to hover free.  She let out a heavy sigh as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders.  "At the scene," she said vaguely.  Then her eyes focused on Clarice.   "What's he like?"  

Clarice was more accustomed to Alice being cocky and dangerous, not thoughtful and sad.  This was unknown territory.  She swallowed a bit and eyed the other woman.  

"He's very nice," Clarice said.  "Sort of shy.  Why are you asking?"  

A few days ago, she thought, Alice would have hurt her for asking that.  It seemed something had changed.  Now she simply shrugged.   

"I was just curious," Alice said.  "He was looking at the scene.  They'll probably figure out that's not you."  Her eyes floated off and then back to Clarice's.  "Don't look at me like that," she said irritably.  "I had to do it."  

Clarice watched her carefully.  She did seem dejected somehow.  "Are you…do you feel bad about that?"  

Alice shook her head, her face blank.  "No," she said.  "I had to do it.  She'd been here, she'd seen me.  And she knew who I was.  But that's how it's always been."  Her tone turned mocking.  "'How could you do that?  Don't you feel guilty?'  And no, I don't.  I never did.  I just…don't."  

"You don't look happy," Clarice said.  

Alice shrugged.  "I'm not," she said idly.  "This…this happens sometimes.  It passes off.  Besides, you shouldn't be mad at me.  I did her a favor."  

Clarice Starling knew about the killers she sought.  She knew that expressing disapproval of what they had done was often counterproductive.  It didn't work on the ones they tried to interview for Behavioral Sciences.  Now, however, her situation was even more precarious.  

"A favor?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice neutral.  

Alice nodded.  "She doesn't have to live in this stupid world anymore," she said.  She rose and crossed to the table, boots clicking against the concrete.  When she returned, she held Clarice's gun.  A melancholy look crossed her face.  At the sight of the gun, Clarice flinched.  

"Alice?" she asked, and her voice shook.  "Alice, are you OK?"  

Alice shook her head without replying.  

"Alice, are you…are you going to shoot me?"  

Alice put the .45 on the floor and glanced over at Clarice with a curious glance.  "And what if I was?" she asked.  "Why do you want to cling to life so desperately?  It's stupid and meaningless."  She lifted the .45 and stared down the barrel.  She evinced no fear in so doing.   Clarice felt sweat break out on the back of her neck.  If Alice shot her, she would die.  If Alice shot herself, she would die too, but it would be a much more drawn-out, painful death.  

"Alice, listen to me," Clarice said.  Her eyes were wide with horror.  "Put down the gun.  Just put it down and listen to me."  

Surprisingly, Alice complied and looked at Clarice with a _not-this-again _expression on her face.  Clarice licked her lips.  Her tongue felt dry.  She gripped the bars of her cage hard enough to make her hands ache.  The pieces fell together in her mind with a neat _click_.  

The classic view of sociopaths was that they had no emotions.  There were some who believed that this was not true.  She'd seen articles that suggested that sociopathic personalities could and did suffer emotionally.  An article in the _Psychiatric Times _that had been passed around at Behavioral Sciences suggested that emotional pain was a cause of their crimes. At the time she'd thought it was a lot of liberal hooey.   Now, seeing Alice reminding her of nothing so much as a textbook case of depression, she had to wonder.

Besides, the timing of it.  Baker had been killed on Saturday night.  The lawyers had been killed a day later.  A week and change before Winfield and Thurmond.  It had struck her as a killing cycle.  Now it seemed Alice's killing cycle was controlled by something else. 

"You said…you said this happened and passed off," Clarice said.  "Has it happened a lot before?  Did they maybe give you some medication?"  

Alice sighed.  "You mean, am I bipolar?  Did you think you were the first to figure _that _out?"  

Clarice was surprised to hear Alice say it herself, but found herself slightly relieved.  If Alice knew, convincing her to try and get help would be easier.  

_She'll still be a killer, though, _her mind reminded her helpfully.  For the time being she clamped that off.  

"Yes," Clarice said.  

Alice shook her head.  "Oh no, they diagnosed that a while ago."   She chuckled, as if it was amusing somehow.

Clarice had to force herself to let go of the bars.  Had Catherine Martin ever had to deal with this?   But maybe she could talk her way out of this.  Alice didn't seem violent now.  Maybe she was only violent when she was manic.  Maybe now, she could be talked into doing the right thing.    

"Do you…do you have medication?" Clarice prodded.  "Upstairs, maybe?"  

Alice shrugged.  "I haven't taken it in a while," she said disinterestedly.  "I don't like it.  Everything is so…flat when you're on it."  

Clarice took a long, shuddering breath.  "Alice, I need you to listen to me," she said.  "I want you to…to go upstairs and take the medication.  You'll feel better.  It's a sickness.  It's not your fault.  Just like…an infection or something like that.   Okay?"  

Alice eyed her distantly.  

"Look," Clarice said.  "If…if you're sick, it's not your fault.  You know, there's help out there you could get.  It doesn't have to be this way.  Let me out of the cage.  I'll help you."  She stretched out her arm towards her captor.  

"If I let you go," Alice said morbidly, "you'll have me put in prison." 

"Not necessarily," Clarice implored.  "Maybe you weren't answerable for your actions.   If you're sick, you could get treatment.  Get better.  You don't _have _to feel this way."  

"Treatment," Alice said, sounding dubious.  "In case you didn't notice, I've killed people.  They wouldn't give me treatment, they'd lock me up.  I had that happen to me once before.  I didn't like it."  

Clarice sighed.  "Look," she said soothingly.  "It's not what you think.  I can suggest that you not go to prison, that you go to a hospital.  A psychiatric hospital.  For treatment.  It's not…it's not what you think.  It could be a private hospital, if you want.  But…but they would, they would help you."

Alice snorted.  "A psychiatric hospital.  Yeah, that's a great idea.  Be poked at and prodded by so-called therapists.  No, thank you, Clarice.  I really don't want to be some headshrinker's pet project."   She made quotation marks with her fingers.  "Daughter of Hannibal Lecter, going to the loony bin just like him.  Maybe they'd put me in his old cell.   If that's your offer I must decline it.  I'd rather shoot both of us than live that life.  It would be more humane." 

"That's not how it is," Clarice said desperately.  "Things have changed.  They could…they could help you.  You'd have a lawyer. Your rights would be respected."  

Alice let out a heavy sigh.  "Tell me," she said.  "When you saw my father, how many men on that ward were being helped?  Were their rights respected? It was a prison, Clarice, and nothing more.  They lock them up and leave them there.  If your idea of helping me is to put me in a little closet and leave me there for the rest of my life, then my answer is no, thank you.  In a couple of days this will pass off, and in the meantime we'll just both have to get by."

Clarice shuddered.  Things had just taken a major turn.  

"Do you have medication?" Clarice repeated.  

Alice nodded and shrugged as it was a minor matter. 

"What do you have?" 

"Depakote and Zoloft," Alice said.  That verified it for Clarice.  Someone, somewhere, had diagnosed her as bipolar.  Crazily, she found herself wondering if Alice killed when she was on her meds.  __

"Please, Alice.  Just take the Zoloft.  You'll feel better."  

Alice thought about it for a few moments.  Clarice tensed.  

"No," Alice said.  "I don't like it.  I won't take it.  You can't make me."  

"I'm not trying to make you," Clarice implored.  "I'm just trying to help.  You don't like feeling this way, do you?"  

"Good night, Clarice."   Alice's tone was frosty.   She rose and ascended the stairs.  The door slammed behind her and the lock clicked shut.  Overhead, the light turned off.  Clarice was entombed in darkness and alone.  

_Oh, man, _Clarice Starling thought.  _What am I going to do now? _


	13. Connections

                The time for action had come now.  

                Dr. Lecter sat in his den in his home in Argentina – his large, wonderfully appointed, lonely home.  He reviewed the information that he had.  Clarice had been kidnapped.  Of that Dr. Lecter had no doubt.  Someone had her.  There was no reason at all for her to disappear.  She was working a case; that of the Six Fingered Killer.  

                On Dr. Lecter's table was a copy of the _International Herald Tribune.  _Atop the agony column was a personal ad.  Dr. Lecter had circled it.  It made him somewhat nervous.  

                _A.A. Aaron – I need your help.  Someone wants to meet you very badly.  Hannah.  _

It was blunt and to the point.  It _sounded _like Clarice, he thought.  But it was so hard to tell.  The printed word was not always indicative of the emotions of the sender.  Yet still he had to be wary.  Did they think that he was the Six Fingered Killer?  Could this be a trap?

                Then he thought of Clarice trapped by a serial killer, and he knew he had to find a way to help her.  

                Clarice had put an end to Jame Gumb's career as a fine clothier.  He had always seen her as someone pursuing the killers.  A forever troubled knight who would take up her sword on behalf of the innocent.  A pity that she could not stand down her watch to join him.   He had been slightly troubled for her throughout her career.  She might have fallen on the field of battle.  He could have seen that.  Her disappearance troubled him more.  How had Clarice fallen prey to a serial killer?  She knew better.  

                No, it had to be something else, something that would have anesthetized Clarice's normally sound defensive instincts.  Dr. Lecter suspected a wolf in lamb's clothing.  Perhaps the Six Fingered Killer was female.  The _Tattler _had hinted that this might be a possibility.  Dr. Lecter thought it was possible.  What he was almost positive of was that the Six Fingered Killer had appeared to Clarice as a victim.  That was the only way he could make any sense of her being lulled enough to be taken captive. 

                The discovery of the corpse in Rock Creek Park told him what he was dealing with.  The corpse had been dressed in Clarice's clothing and had been carrying Clarice's ID.  The corpse resembled Clarice.  It had been intended so.  Clarice on the cross, crucified for her beliefs.  

                The FBI probably believed the killer to be quite psychologically disturbed.  Dr. Lecter knew better.  The Six Fingered Killer was more akin to his style.  Displaying the corpse in the park indicated that the killer was bold and intelligent, able to waltz into the nation's capital and leave them a little 'gift'.  The news had only reported on the facial mutilations without giving specifics, but Dr. Lecter had a feeling he knew what they were.  The Six Fingered Killer had sought to delay identification of the corpse through fingerprints.  He did not suspect that the facial mutilations would be ritualistic – the killer was having a bit of fun.

                Given the opportunity, Dr. Lecter thought, he would have liked the chance to meet the Six Fingered Killer.  But once Clarice was involved, he had to help her.  The world would be boring with her gone from it.  

                Dr. Lecter walked calmly through his mansion to his bedroom.  In his bedroom closet, he pulled back a corner of the Berber carpet.  There was a small board fitted neatly into the floor there, and he carefully removed it.  Beneath the floor was a cavity.  Fitted neatly into the cavity was a small metal box.  He took the box and walked into his den.  Inside the box were passports of the finest Brazilian manufacture in several names.  

                He picked up the phone and consulted his memory palace for a telephone number.  There it was.  A broker of last-minute cancellations in Buenos Aires.  He would be able to re-enter the United States for the first time in a few years.  Immigrations would give him no trouble at all.  They never did.  

                Fortunately, there was a ticket available.  One of those dreadful tours.  Some poor sod had died of a heart attack in Rio.  It did open up a space for Dr. Lecter, though, and that was fine.  He preferred the camouflage of the herd. He would be obliged to be shuffled around some tourist sites in Argentina, a country he knew perfectly well.  Still, that was fine.  He'd be in the United States in two days.  Dr. Lecter arranged the deal in a few minutes.  

                It took little time to settle up his affairs.  He explained to his butler that he would be leaving for a bit.  Perhaps a week or so.  His butler, ever diligent, offered to pack a bag for him.  Dr. Lecter thanked him kindly and accepted the offer.  His servants were well trained and knew what he would like.  

                He would need to meet the tour in Buenos Aires.  They would be landing in a few hours.  He picked up his bag and headed out to the airport.  Two days of mucking around at tourist traps designed to suck American dollars from their wallets. Then he would be back in the United States and could best investigate Clarice's disappearance.  

                He hoped two days would not be too late.

…

                Alice Pierpont's depressive phases did not last as long as her manic phases.  Her cycle had a pronounced tilt towards the manic.  But when she was depressed, she was very, very depressed.  It was hard to get up in the morning.  It was hard to do anything other than lie in bed.  She had to force herself to feed her prisoner.  

                Once she was down there, it was awfully hard to make herself go back up the stairs.  Clarice seemed happy to see her.  She usually wanted to talk.  Alice supposed it was rough on her, down there in the cage all alone for so long.  But there was nothing else to be done.  She'd studied up on Clarice Starling.  Clarice was wily and sly.  She'd survived in the FBI.  She'd been much, much smarter than anyone had ever given her credit for.  Alice knew.  She had studied up on Clarice ever since she had been sixteen and realized who her father was.  

                Alice Pierpont had been educated at a girls' boarding school in England.  Her hateful mother had not wanted her rare daughter around, so off she had gone to England.  She hadn't intended to find Dr. Lecter.  Some girl in her house had been looking at a web page about him on the Internet.  Alice had seen it, checked out the website for herself, and found her interest piqued.  

                The pictures of Dr. Lecter at his trial had been interesting.  The same pale skin and dark hair.  The same maroon eyes. The same perfectly duplicated middle finger, the rarest form of polydactyly.  The same cultured exterior covering a mind capable of traveling to the depths of atrocities.  At that age, Alice had been well aware for years that she lacked something other people had.  She did not feel guilt or regret.  She could feel sadness, but never over things she had done.  

                She could understand them intellectually but did not have them in the same way that her more feeling classmates did not have an eleventh finger.  She simply lacked them.  But she did possess interest and fascination.  Curious about her own origins, she had sought out what she could.  Perhaps he could understand her.  Perhaps he might have something to offer her.  At the minimum, he might be interested to know that he had a daughter.

                Once back in the United States for school holidays, she had time.  Her mother had largely ignored her.  That was just fine with Alice; by that time, she had accustomed herself to the fact that her mother was much like her.  She had sought out the back issues of the Baltimore papers and discovered the truth.  The society pages that had occurred a year before her birth had told her what she wanted to know.  Jane Pierpont had been seen out and about in Baltimore's nightlife with Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  

                The linkage between Dr. Lecter and Clarice Starling had been well known since Alice had been a little girl.  From there, Alice had dug up as much as she could find on the two of them.  She had no memory palace, but she did possess her father's capability to recall information going back years at a time.  The Internet was a great help; there were tons of web pages devoted to the psychiatrist's grisly doings.  Sightings of him had been legion.  Most of them, Alice had thought, were simply ridiculous.  Dr. Lecter had been 'sighted' in London, Rome, British Columbia, Alberta, Colorado, and Australia, just to name a few.  She didn't think he was anywhere close to those places.  He was hiding somewhere, ducked down quietly and living the life of a wealthy man.  

                Now she had Clarice herself.  They talked together in the basement.  Clarice seemed to be quite nice.  She was afraid, but that was to be expected.  Alice had her in a cage.  Yet she seemed to be somewhat concerned.  That surprised Alice.  It had been a long time since anyone had expressed any sort of concern for her.  Alice suspected that Clarice's concern was motivated by self-interest.  After all, she fed Clarice.  If she was gone, Clarice would starve to death in the cage.  

                She couldn't let Clarice go, even though the idea occurred to her.  She didn't want to go to prison.  That was what would happen to her if Clarice were allowed out.  Clarice was much smarter than the FBI gave her credit for.  She might be depressed, but she wasn't stupid.  Trading this house for a cell was not part of her plans.  Besides, she needed Clarice in order to find her father.  

                On the fourth day, Alice found herself feeling better.  She came down to Clarice's cage and rattled a pair of handcuffs.  Clarice glanced up at her with some trepidation.  

                "Hi," Alice said.  "Want to come out of the cage?"  

                Clarice tensed.  "What are you going to do to me?"  she queried.  

                Alice glanced down at her and made a moue of distaste.  "I thought you might like a shower," she said.  "And perhaps a meal upstairs."  

                Clarice's hands gripped the bars.  Why was she tense?  Did she want to stink in there?  Alice found herself vaguely offended.  Here she was offering Clarice some comforts and this was the reward she got.  

                "Do you _want _to stay in there, or not?" Alice asked, and her brow furrowed.  

                Clarice eyed her carefully.  She seemed to be sizing her up.  Clarice licked her lips nervously.  

                "Are…are you going to hurt me, Alice?" she asked.  

                Where had _that _come from?  "No," Alice said.  "I'm offering you a shower and a meal upstairs.  If you don't want it, fine."  Her tone sounded vaguely petulant and hurt.  

                "I'd like that," Clarice said quickly.  "I'd like that very much.  But…but I know about…you know...I'm just wondering if you're going to try and do something to me."  

                "I'm not going to hurt you," Alice said.  "I thought you might want to eat upstairs at a table like a normal human being and get a shower.  If you don't want it, fine."  She dropped the handcuffs and crossed her arms.  

                Clarice saw them fall and swallowed hard.  Her eyes scanned Alice's.  Then, calmly, she took the cuffs and fastened them on her own wrists.  She crab-walked over to the door of the cage.  

                "I do want it," she said quickly.  "I'm sorry if I offended you.  I just…I don't want you to hurt me, Alice.  Are you going to do that?"  

                "No," Alice said, and crossed over to unlock the door.  For the first time in four days, Clarice walked out of the cage and stood upright.  Her knees let out twin cracks as she stood up.  Alice took her arm and walked her over to the stairs.  Clarice seemed nervous to mount them, but gained confidence as she went on.  

                She stopped and stared around at the upstairs part of the house.  Probably she was memorizing it for later, when she was free.  So she could testify at Alice's trial.  Thinking about that made Alice a bit angrier, and she hustled Clarice through the house to the bathroom.  Alice's time in juvenile detention had taught her how to properly strip out a prisoner for showering.  After getting Clarice's jumpsuit, she noticed that the FBI agent had become thin and bony during her detention.  She supposed she ought to feed her captive more.  The jumpsuit itself was pretty rank, as Clarice had been forced to wear it for days on end.  After locking the bathroom door, Alice tossed it down to the basement and reminded herself to wash it.  She grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a white T-shirt for Clarice to wear in the meantime.  

                She let Clarice have perhaps twenty minutes in the shower.  Magnanimity was something she could afford.  Dinner was almost ready.  Despite what Clarice might think, Alice had none of her father's more peculiar culinary interests.  She usually cooked foods that were easy to prepare.  For now, she'd gone with an easier means: she had ordered pizza.  

                Once Clarice was done in the shower, Alice let her dress and walked her into the kitchen.  Her dinette set contained heavy wooden chairs.  Once Clarice was installed in one, she handcuffed Clarice's right wrist to the arm of the chair.  Then, a gracious hostess, she offered Clarice a slice of pizza.  

                Clarice took it warily and nibbled at it.  Then she began to wolf it down.  Alice supposed she was hungry.  She ought to feed her a bit more; she'd try to remember that.  Now that the down phase was fading off, she could keep that in mind.  It was so much harder during her down phases.  Everything was.  She'd do better now.  Maybe give her something she could keep in the cage and eat on her own time.  

                "How's the pizza?" Alice asked lightly, and took a slice herself.  

                "It's good," Clarice said, still eying Alice as if she feared Alice would attack and filet her.  "Thank you."  

                Alice shrugged.  "I wanted to ask you something," she said.  

                Clarice sighed.  "Is it about Dr. Lecter or Josh?"  

                Alice nodded.  

                Clarice took a deep breath.  Whatever she was about to say, she thought it would make Alice angry.  And perhaps she knew that once Alice's down phases broke, she became more herself and more dangerous.  

                "Alice," she began.  "We've been talking…you and me…for a while now.  I don't know what I can tell you about either of them that I haven't already."  

                A bolt of anger shot through Alice.  How dare she withhold from her!  Alice had thought a shower and some hot food and clean clothes might loosen her lips.  Her first urge was to slam Clarice's head a few times into the table and see if a broken nose did the trick instead.  But no; resorting to physical force wouldn't get her where she wanted to be.   Not yet, at any rate.   

                "I want to know if Dr. Lecter is going to answer the ad, and if so, how," she said, her voice betraying a hint of anger.    

                Clarice Starling sighed.  For the past few days, Alice had been asking about her father and about Josh Graham.  She didn't understand what her captor wanted to know about Josh.  But Clarice had answered as best she could.  If Alice thought she was lying she'd be in trouble.  

                "Alice," she said, holding up her free left hand to ward off the younger woman's anger, "I don't know.  Dr. Lecter told me to place the ad. He never said what he would do.  I don't know if he'll come here or reply through the ad or what."  

                Alice's face darkened.  Clarice trembled a bit.  The shower had felt great, but it reminded her how weak she had become.  Her body, once a finely tuned fighting instrument, had suffered.  Alice only fed her once a day and had to be reminded sometimes to feed her.  That, Clarice thought, was more the depression than anything else.  There had at least been the comfort of knowing that Alice wasn't violent when she was depressed.  She'd honestly seemed to want to talk to Clarice, and Clarice took the opportunity.  She knew perfectly well that a killer had a much more difficult time killing someone who had become humanized to them.  Hopefully Clarice's efforts had borne some fruit. 

                She'd tried to suggest that Alice get some help.  If she ever got out of this alive, she'd stick to that.  It was damn hard for her to be hard on anyone in pain, even when that person had killed in front of her and tortured her.  Alice had refused her point blank on that score.  Even sad and lonely as she seemed, she didn't want to be in a hospital.  

                Now it seemed the other shoe was dropping and Alice was cycling up again.  Now she had to be careful.  When Alice was up, she'd get angry easily.  

                "You have to know _something_," she said.  

                Clarice felt pained.  "I don't," she pleaded.  "I don't know what happens now.  Keep watching the ads and see if he replies.  I swear, I don't know.  I've been honest with you."

                Alice's eyes narrowed.  

                "You're not helping," she said sullenly.    She took a slice of pizza herself and began to eat it.  As she did, she took a notebook from the table and began to flip through it.  Clarice could read the word JOSHUA written across the top of it.  She tensed.  

                "What's in the notebook?" Clarice asked, trying to make the question sound light and innocuous.  

                Alice shrugged and turned the notebook around so Clarice could see it.  She saw the picture of the three of them taped neatly over one sheet of the paper.  The other side of the paper was covered with Alice's peculiarly feminine cursive.  Josh's _curriculum vitae, _Clarice noticed.  Where he'd gone to school, when he had gone to the Academy.  A lot of information about Will Graham.  A chart she had written up comparing Josh to his father.  She wondered if Alice had hired an investigator to get her this information and if that could be used to catch her.  

                "Why are you interested in him?" Clarice asked.  

                Alice merely smiled.  

                "That's my secret, Clarice," she said calmly.  "He fascinates me.  That's all you need to know."  

                She flipped the page and began to write.  A two-column chart again, Clarice noticed.   Across one column were the letters H.L – C.S.  Across the second were the words A.P. – J.G.  That was it, Clarice realized.  There was an odd sort of connection between herself and Dr. Lecter.  Alice hoped that there might be some sort of connection between her and Josh.  

                _Oh boy, _Clarice thought, _if I live to get out of here, this is gonna make one hell of an article.  _

But there was one problem here.  If Alice's interest in Josh was borne of delusion, it could get ugly when the truth came out.  She had met Dr. Lecter, but this was not true of the next generation.  Was this something she might be able to use to maneuver with?  Clarice cleared her throat and decided to brave it.  

                "You know, you've been asking about Josh, and I can see he fascinates you," she said.  "But you don't _know _Josh.   You've never met him."  

                Alice Pierpont smiled coolly at Clarice.  "Yet," she said cryptically.  


	14. Dinner and a Show

                Alice Pierpont entered the store, quite pleased with herself.  The overhead bell jingled as she closed the door behind her.  It had taken her a while to come across this plan.  If it worked, it would be _fun.  _

The small leatherworking shop was well known in Baltimore for custom-made work.  Alice had bought gloves here before.  Her extra finger necessitated custom-made gloves.  She liked their work.  Behind the counter, an elderly man with an accent smiled when he saw her.  

                "Goot mornink, Mizz Pierpont," he said.  

                "Good morning," she said, and smiled brightly.  "So they're ready?"  

                "Ah yes, dey are ready.  Dis is a new think you ask me to do.  But I make.  You look."  

                From behind his workbench he extracted a small flat box.  He opened it to reveal a finely made set of black leather gloves wrapped in tissue paper.  Like the rest of the gloves she had bought from him, they were made to her own measure.  Unlike the rest of them, they had the normal amount of fingers on the left hand.  

                "May I see your hant?" the elderly craftsman asked.  

                Alice rolled up her left sleeve and held out her left hand in an imperious gesture.  The glovemaker took her hand and gently touched her two middle fingers together, one atop the other.  He bound them together with a piece of scotch tape.  The gloves were made of fine leather and buttoned at the wrist.  They ran all the way up to just below her shoulder.  

                "Zee," he said.  "You tape feengers together, like when they are spraint.  Then slide glove on."  He gently put the glove on her hand.  Proudly, he displayed his work.  

                "De gluff finger with the two fingers inside is beeger.  Theeker.  So I make other fingers of glove beeger and theeker too.  So it balances.  For look.  You zee?"  

                Alice stared at her left hand in the glove.  It looked so normal.  She wiggled her fingers.   Her hand felt bound, but not irretrievably so.  It was quite comfortable, all things considered.  The glove did manage to camouflage her finger nicely.   Alice's hands were small to begin with, and the result looked odd to her, but it would not get a second look from someone who did not know the actual size of her hands.  She was quite pleased with the look.

                The other glove was normal, but thicker so that it matched its mate.  She raised her hands to her face and inhaled the brisk aroma of the leather.  A lazy smile crossed her face.  

                Picking the symbol of her difference from the rest of humanity had its problems, but she'd seen to that.  She'd be able to accomplish something she wanted to do with these.  They would get her close enough.  

                Alice paid the glovemaker and took the gloves.  Carefully, she put them in her purse and headed out to her Mustang.  Driving with her two middle fingers taped together felt weird, but she could get used to it.   On the way home, on a whim, she bought a box of chocolates.  Clarice was still down in the cage, and she would probably appreciate some.  

                Before she went home she dropped in at a department store and bought herself a few new outfits.    Something he would approve of.   Alice was more accustomed to dressing in what she liked and shanghaied a little blonde thing of a clerk who might be able to give her advice on what she wanted.  The clerk who helped her thought she had chosen well.    All the same, the clerk was happy to see her leave. 

                Romance was in the air, she thought.  

                Once at home, she had some background work to do.  It was much easier than she thought.  She simply called around to a few of the hotels in Washington, DC.  She tried the big chains first.  It wasn't that different from the social engineering she'd done to find out where James Winfield was staying.  The fourth one hit paydirt; Will Graham was staying at the Holiday Inn on the Hill.  

                Humming a happy tune to herself, Alice headed down her basement stairs and surveyed her captive.  Clarice eyed her nervously.  She probably thought there was something torturous in the box.  Not today though; Alice was in a good mood.

                "Good morning, Reesey!" she said merrily, and spread her arms.  Her right hand held the box.   Clarice tensed.  Alice rolled her eyes.  Why was she so paranoid?  

                "Isn't it a beautiful day today?" Alice asked.  

                "I wouldn't know, Alice," Clarice said carefully.  "I'm in a cage here."  

                Alice sighed.  "I _know, _Clarice," she said soothingly.  "It's got to be hard.  But I only need to detain you for a little while longer.  After that…well, we'll see."  Her eyes sparkled with glee.  

                "You're in a good mood," Clarice noted.  

                "I am indeed.  Put your hands behind your back and I'll take you out of your cage and bring you upstairs.  You can watch TV upstairs, unless you'd prefer some more quiet time in there.  After all, _I _have a date tonight.  Don't stay up."  

                Clarice let Alice put the cuffs on her and walked out of the cage without argument.  She seemed to be holding something back.  Alice frowned.  

                "_Ree-_sey," she said cuttingly, "at the least, you could be happy for me." 

                She walked Clarice up the stairs and through the house.   They stopped in the kitchen for Clarice's dinner, then a trip to the bathroom.  She'd set up the TV room so that Clarice could be in it.  The TV room itself was perfectly comfortable; there was a couch, a television, a stereo, and plenty of creature comforts.  The floor was polished wood.   

                In the center of the room was a stout wooden armchair.  It would not move at all, as Alice had bolted it to the floor that morning.  She took Clarice's handcuffs off and sat her in the chair.  Leather straps dangled off the arms and legs of the chair.  Another two were on the back of the chair.  Moving quickly, Alice strapped her captive in as if preparing to electrocute her.  Clarice didn't fight her.  But why was she looking at her like that?  

                "Alice?" Clarice asked.  "What are you going to do to me?"  

                Alice indicated the TV.   "Why, we are going to watch some films, Alex," she quipped in a surprisingly apt British accent.   

                Clarice stared uncertainly at her and then back at the TV, which was blank.  

                "Oh, Reesey," Alice said in a disappointed tone.  "You missed your cue!  You're supposed to writhe in the chair and shout 'I see that it's wrong! It's wrong because it's like against society. It's wrong because everybody has the right to live and be happy without being tolchocked and knifed.'"  She shook her head sadly.  

                Clarice tensed and licked her lips nervously.  Her expression was cautious and fearful as she watched her captor.  Finally she cleared her throat.  

                "Sorry," she said.  "Bit of a…pain in me gulliver."  

                Alice threw back her head and laughed.  "I just _knew _you'd seen that movie," she said.  "I loved that movie in school.  My first schoolgirl crush, don't you know.  He was just _soooo _cute in that little ice-cream suit."  She laced her fingers together and raised them up and assumed a soppy expression.  "Well, the _first _part of the movie was my favorite, anyway.  But it was a warning, too."  

                Clarice's fists clenched on the arms of the chair.  "A warning?"  

                "As to what would happen to me if I got caught," Alice explained.  "_Do _remember that the next time you try to convince me to 'get some help', little droogie."  

                "That's…that's not what I meant," Clarice hedged.   __

"Of _course _not.  Anyways.  I have to shower and primp and all that.  Here's the remote.  There's HBO and Showtime and all the cable channels.  Or if you want a DVD, tell me which one you want."  

                Clarice swallowed.  "So…so are you going to leave me here?" she asked nervously.  

                "For a bit," Alice agreed.  "You'll be just as secure here as you would have been in the cage.  And there's more entertainment up here.  So here you are."  

                She turned to leave.   Clarice's voice sounded nervous.  

                "Alice, wait," she said breathlessly.  "Are you going to make me stay in this chair all night?"  

                Alice shrugged.  "Yep," she said chirpily.  "I know it's not too comfortable, but you'll get by.  My father spent a long time in restraints, too.  It'll help you get closer to him."  

With that, she shut the door behind her and locked it.  As she got ready for her date, she could hear the sound of the TV.  Seemed like Clarice liked CNN.   She took her time.  He _better _appreciate it, she thought.    

                "Bye, roomie," she called through the door.  "Don't wait up.  I'll be out late."  

                …

                 Josh Graham sat in the light of his computer monitor and blinked.  His eyes were sore.  He'd been staring at the monitor all day and into the evening.   Thankfully, they did have one piece of good news.  The corpse on the cross was not Clarice.  Her fingerprints had proven that immediately.  But for that matter, he had no proof at all that Clarice was alive. 

                Still.  What sort of demented freak would _do _something like that?  It was enough to make him nervous about this case.  Josh sighed and forced himself to turn away from the monitor. 

                He had to get out of here.  All Behavioral Sciences had was the oppressive silence and fluorescent lights.  Clarice's empty chair taunted him.  He could do no more work here.  The sound of his Outlook indicating new mail binged, and he checked it.  Ever since getting that call from that girl who had kidnapped Starling – presumably the Six Finger Killer, he had wondered if she would try again. 

                He didn't recognize the name, but it was a girl's.  He tensed.  Reading it, he relaxed a bit.  It wasn't from the killer; it was from a fourteen-year-old in West Virginia who'd seen the article in the _Tattler _and thought he was cute.  He wasn't sure what to think; FBI agents usually didn't get love letters.  Had Clarice had to deal with this?  Weren't girls that age supposed to be into boy bands or something as idols?  

                Ah well.  He'd worry about his teenage fan club in the morning.  The idea of visiting his dad occurred to him.  Dad might have some ideas.  It wasn't too far from Quantico to the Holiday Inn his dad was staying in.  In the lobby, he called his dad on his cell phone.  

                "Josh!"  His dad sounded pleased.  "Come on up.  Sure, we can chat."  

                His dad was in room 221.  It was a simple hotel room: a bed, a table and chairs, a TV.  A watercolor by some anonymous artist on the walls.  He found himself wondering who bought these things.  Will Graham invited his son in and sat down on the bed, gesturing at a chair.  

                "So how are things going?" he asked.  

                Josh shrugged.  "The corpse wasn't Clarice," he said.  "Thank God.  But…I don't know what to do.  I know she's out there, and some loony's got her.  But I don't know _what _I can do.  I keep racking my brain and coming up with nothing."  

                Will nodded.  

                "Do you have any ideas?"  Josh asked.  

                "No," Will allowed.  "You have to remember…I _did _my time.  I don't want to do this.  Tell you the truth, I was surprised you did it."  

                It was Josh's turn to shrug.   

                "Part of me didn't want you to," Will continued.  "I mean…I know I wasn't the best father.  I was an alcoholic for many years.  I can't blame it _all _on the FBI, but it was there.  I mean…I've seen what they can do.  But…,"  he seemed to grope.  "I've been sober for ten years now, stone cold sober."   

                Josh smiled painfully.  "You did fine as a dad," he said thoughtfully.  

                A look like grace appeared on Will's suntanned visage.  "I'm glad," he said.  "I worry about you, though."  

                Josh made a vague gesture.  "I hardly ever drink," he said. 

                Will shook his head.  "It's not that," he explained.  "I worry more about some…some latter-day Lecter getting ahold of you."  

                The idea had occurred to Josh, too.  Ever since he'd been very young and visited his father in the hospital bed Hannibal Lecter had put him in.  But he waved it off.  "I'm qualified in pistol," he said.  "And I'm careful."  

                "So was Clarice," Will said somberly.  Josh found himself shivering.  Yes, the Six Fingered Killer had found some way to get her six-fingered hands on Clarice. Will held up his hand.  

                "Forget I said it," he said.  "You'll think of something.  I have faith in you."   

                As if by unspoken contract, the subject slid away from serial killers and the FBI to more normal things.  Will Graham had owned a boat repair shop for several years and had found some peace in that.  His business was booming down in the Keys.  Molly was well.  Josh's apartment was small and not to his liking, but he couldn't afford better in Washington.  

                After an hour or so, Josh rose.  

                "Well," he said. "I got to get going.  Work tomorrow."  

                Will nodded.  "Call me," he urged.  "Maybe I can come in and help you out."  

                "Crawford would like that," Josh said reflectively.  

                Will snorted.  "He sure would.  Okay.  Have a good night."  

                On the elevator ride down, Josh found himself still nervous.  Where the hell was Clarice?  What hadn't he thought of? What was he missing?  He headed out into the lobby, still lost in his thoughts.  

                His shoulder bumped against someone and he turned around, embarrassed.  Had he been so off in his own world that he hadn't watched where he was going?  Then he saw who he had bumped into and stopped.  

                It was a dark-haired woman in a dress.  She was beautiful.  Her skin was pale and her features delicately sculptured.  For a moment his mind flashed back to the goth chick he'd seen at the crucifixion murder scene.  She wore all black, but that was the only real similarity.  She wore a black dress that stopped a few inches above the knee.  Her arms were sheathed in black leather gloves that ran all the way up her arms.  Her shoulders were largely bare.  Her hair was neatly styled, and a simple chain ran around her neck.  She'd attracted the attention of just about every other guy in the room already.  

                "Oh, pardon me," she said, speaking with a cultured British accent.  

                Josh felt a blush rise to his face automatically.  "Oh, no," he said.  "That was my fault entirely."  

                "That's quite all right," she told him.  "No harm done."  Then she glanced down at his waist with a curious look.  Josh felt his heart start to pound.  What was she staring at?  

                "Is that a gun on your belt?" she asked, eyebrows raising in interest.  

                "Um…yes," Josh said, feeling somewhat strangled.  He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.  Why was he acting like a twelve-year-old kid stammering and full of hormones?  

                _Because you're more used to being with serial killers than beautiful women.  Just settle down.  _

"Yes," he repeated in a calmer voice.  "I'm an FBI agent."  

                "FBI?"  She seemed interested.  "Really?  Is there some sort of police operation going on in the hotel?"  

                Josh grinned idiotically and shook his head.  _Quit being such a damn moron, _he thought.  "No," he said. "I was just visiting my father, actually."  

She smiled approvingly and nodded.  He ought to think of something to say himself, he thought.  "Is this your first time in the States?" he asked. 

"Actually, not my first time," she said.  "I've been here before.  Now I'm working for the British Embassy." 

Josh grinned and felt sweat against the back of his collar. She seemed perfectly at ease.  

"Welcome to America," he said, and felt like it was lame.  

She smiled.  "Thank you," she said.  "Bloody ordeal getting here, though.  The plane was late from Heathrow and then we were circling around Dulles for _hours._  So what do you do for the FBI?"  

"I'm in Behavioral Sciences," he said.  Then his voice echoed in his own ears without his volition, it seemed.  "Hey, would you like to get a drink?  Or dinner, maybe?"  As soon as he said it, adrenalin began pouring into his system and his hands shook.   Josh Graham had been a more bookish, shy, retiring type than some of his more extroverted peers.  

She smiled, in expert control of her mouth.  "I'd love to," she said.  

                There was a small restaurant near the hotel that was quite cozy and romantic.  Josh grinned nervously.  He wondered if she wanted to eat or not.  That was fine.  He found himself staring at the gloves.  Those _were _different; he hadn't seen anyone wear those in real life before.   Now _this _was fun.  It was completely unlike him, but it was still fun.  

                He ordered the most expensive red wine they had on the menu.  That was pricey, but he had always been a saving soul.  The meal was quite tasty and the portions sufficient.  She ate eagerly, smiling at him saucily over her fork as if having some whipped-cream-covered thought.  They made small talk over drinks.  She was quite open and friendly.  Eventually, the wine calmed him down a bit and he felt more social and confident.  

                After dinner, Josh found himself feeling somewhat woozy and flushed.  It wasn't shyness, not anymore.  He was feeling relatively comfortable.  His new friend walked up the sidewalk and stared at a new Mustang parked on the side of the street.  

                "Do you like Mustangs?" she asked him.  

                "Yep," he said.  "Don't have one myself, but they're nice."  

                "That they are," she agreed, and then sighed.  "Josh…I'm afraid I have some confessions to make."  

                Josh smiled forgivingly at her.  "Um…okay," he said, spreading his hands wide as if to indicate that whatever she had to confess could not possibly matter.  

                When she spoke again, the British accent was wiped from her voice as if it had never been there.  "Well," she said, "to begin with, I don't work for the British embassy and I'm not British myself.  That's one."  Her arm came up and grabbed his.  Her grip was surprisingly strong.  She walked him over to the Mustang.  A double chirp of a disarmed alarm came from it and she opened the door and tossed him inside like a sack of grain.  His legs didn't want to stay stable and he wasn't expecting it.  She crossed around the car quickly and slid behind the wheel.  

                Josh knew something was up now, and he grabbed her arm.  He'd never gotten _this _drunk before off a couple glasses of wine.   "What the hell is--,?"

                "Also, I took a page from my little brother," she continued, and closed both doors.  "I put some GHB in your glass of wine, Josh.  That's why you feel woozy.  You'll pass out momentarily.  It's OK though.  I would never hurt you.  That's two."  She reached across him and pulled his gun from his holster with no difficulty.  She tossed it in the back seat and pinned him down with her right forearm jammed against his collarbone.

Amazingly, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.  Her mouth was warm and sweet.  Her right hand was free, and she picked the buttons of her glove open one by one.  She stripped it off and dropped it in his lap.  Black spirals corkscrewed across his vision.   

Alice Pierpont wiggled the fingers of her left hand in front of his fading eyes.  Even as he was slipping into unconsciousness, he saw, and he knew who she was.  She smiled gently at him as he went limp.  

"As for three," Alice said lightly, "well…three times two is six."  

 Then the lights of Washington's night all went black.


	15. Excitement

                Clarice started in the chair.  She'd been sitting here for hours.  Her back ached.  Her bladder was full.  The straps on the chair dug into her arms.  It was an effective form of torture, she thought.  The chair held her firmly in place.  There was no escaping its embrace.  

                Her nose itched, and had been itching for a couple of hours now.  That was driving her absolutely batshit.  It was like Chinese water torture or something.  Her arms had been taken away from her.  Hell, her whole _body _had been taken away from her.

                The night hadn't been all bad.  She'd caught the news.  How intoxicatingly powerful it was to be in touch with the world again.  For the past week or so, she'd been locked in the cage.  Even Alice's washing machine, ten feet away from her cage, was utterly unreachable.  But it was only one-way; she could watch CNN or HBO or whatever she liked on Alice's TV, but she couldn't let anyone else know where she was.   She was still a caged bird; all that had changed was that the blanket had been pulled away from her cage.  

                But still, being reminded that there was a world beyond her cage was great.  Clarice had studied the psychology of hostages.  It wasn't until now that she was aware of how weak and terrified someone held captive by another felt.  How isolated she had been since her capture!  Watching TV had reminded her that there was another world out there, one where your captor wasn't the only person you met, a world where you weren't constantly wondering if you were going to be killed before the end of the day.   

                A sound made her start, the motion arrested before it began by the straps holding her down.   Alice Pierpont unlocked the door and entered the room.  She wore a pretty fancy dress and looked good.  It was tight in the right places.  Looked like Alice had been manhunting, Clarice thought.   

                Her expression was somewhere between gleeful and positively manic.  Her eyes gleamed.  They might share Hannibal Lecter's strange maroon shade, but Dr. Lecter's glacial calm and targeted cruelties had never allowed for his to _gleam _like that.  Clarice sensed a roller coaster coming.  

                "Reesey!" Alice said happily.  "How _are _you?  I suppose you have to go to the bathroom, don't you.  You poor thing."  She displayed a set of handcuffs.  Even as manic as she seemed, she didn't forget those.  She unstrapped Clarice and cuffed her, allowing her to stand.  As she walked Clarice to the bathroom, she began talking a mile a minute.  

                "Oh my _God, _Reesey, he's here!  I got him.  He's gonna be mine, _mine mine mine.  _Aren't you excited?  What am I going to do with him first?  He is so _cute, _Reesey, so completely cute and he's _right here!_"  

                Clarice wasn't exactly wild about going to the bathroom with Alice watching, but it was better to have Alice jazzed than have her upset about something.  She observed the other woman calmly and took a deep breath.  _Stay calm, Clarice, calm and cool, maybe you can get her calmed down a bit without something violent happening.  _

"You've got Dr. Lecter?" she asked guardedly.  

                Amazingly, Alice giggled like a schoolgirl, clamping her hands over her mouth.  

                "No!"  she said.  "He's coming.  We'll get to that."  

                "Then who?"  Clarice asked.  

                Alice reached into her purse and withdrew a flat black case.  Seeing it caused a sinking feeling in Clarice's stomach.  Dramatically, Alice flipped the case open just as Clarice had countless times.  The small plastic card did not bear Alice's picture; it bore a young man's.  

                "Josh!"  Alice said excitedly.  "Josh, Josh, Josh, Joshie, Josh!  FBI Behavioral Science profilers!  It's like Beanie Babies, you collect as many as you can."  She clutched the ID to her chest and emitted a stream of giggles.  The heels of her shoes clacked against the floor as she bounced up and down. "He's _here _and he's _mine _and he's just _so _cute you could _die."_

"Where is he?" Clarice asked cautiously.  

                "In the bedroom," Alice said.  "He's sleeping now.  We had a _beautiful _dinner and then drinks and I brought him back here."  

                Clarice swallowed.  If Josh was here, how had he gotten here?  Did he know?  The hideous image of Josh showing up here on an innocent blind date, chatting with Alice while Clarice was held hostage below, arose in her mind.  No, wait, Josh was too shy for something like that.  For God's sake, the kid seemed so repressed she got the idea he'd be stuttering and speechless around an attractive woman.  

                "You had dinner with Josh?"  

                "Uh-huh, I did," Alice said.  "I found out where his dad was staying and I hung around in the lobby and I waited for him to come down and I bumped into him and he offered to get some dinner and I said yes and off we went and it was this sweet romantic little restaurant and the ambience was just great and then I poured some GHB in his wine and he went right to sleep and I brought him back here and now I just don't know what to do with him first!"  High red points of excitement burned in her cheeks.  Another burst of hysterical giggles escaped her.   

                _Don't have coffee with him, _was the first thing that rose to Clarice's mind.  Alice reached out and hauled her off the toilet.  She began walking Clarice down the stairs to the basement.  

                "I'm putting you in your cage, now, Reesey.  I know you hate it so I made it better.  Joshie and I need our alone time, you know.  Get-to-know-you time.  Maybe when my father comes we can double date.  I got you things for your cage!  Look!"  

                Lying calmly in the cage were some things that hadn't been there before.  There was a sleeping bag, a pillow, and a blanket.  These were still partially in their original wrappings.  Plastic wrap and cardboard was strewn around the cage. In the corner away from the door were two large plastic grocery bags.  Clarice went into the cage gamely enough.  Alice was in a rare mood, it seemed, and spoiling it would be a poor idea.  

                In the bags Clarice found further evidence that Alice must be on the manic side of things right now, just in case she had any reason to doubt that.  Alice had decided that her time of deprivation must be over.  There was an AM-FM radio and a battery.  A twelve-pack of Coca-Cola.  A huge plastic bottle of fruit juice.  Four packages of Reese's peanut butter cups, another three package of Kit Kats, and two bags of Fritos. A bag of pretzels.  A roll of paper towels.  Nine cans of Pringles in different flavors.  Somehow Alice had decided that Clarice lived to eat potato chips stored in a tennis ball can.  A bulk pack of Slim Jims. Clarice turned from those in distaste.  Those were _nasty._  A package of twelve ball-point Bic pens.  _What the hell am I going to do with those without any paper? _ Well, she'd have to wait on that; it seemed Alice had bought her a few rolls of toilet paper too.  

                "Thank you," Clarice said cautiously.  "Where did you get all this?"

                "Wal-Mart," Alice answered obligingly, and locked the door.  Clarice wished for a phone more strongly than anything she'd ever wanted in her life.  She tried to picture Alice motoring around a Wal-Mart late at night, dressed all fancy, filling the cart with manic glee.   She seemed to have gone after the snack aisle with a snow shovel.  _Someone _would have noticed that.  

                Still, she found herself intently grateful for the food.  Alice left back up the stairs in a rustle of skirts and giggles.  Clarice ripped open the Reese's peanut butter cups and wolfed one of them down.  It was good, and she scarfed down another two before she knew what was happening.  She held herself back; otherwise she'd eat it all and be stuck with the Slim Jims.  A can of Coke served to allay her thirst.  

                After she'd had something to eat and spread out her sleeping bag and blanket, it occurred to her.  She sat up and put her hands on the bars.  Possibly she could scream for Alice, but Alice was likely to ignore her.  She was off to play with her new boy-toy.   

                "Oh man," Clarice said.  "Now what happens when Josh wakes up?"  

                …

                The line at Customs was long, but it moved relatively quickly.  Most of the tour had very standard Customs declarations.  A hundred dollars or so in dreadful souvenirs.  One by one, the returning vacationers trickled back into the United States.  Dr. Hannibal Lecter shuffled and waited.  He wore sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers.  Atop his head was a baseball cap labeled '_Buenos Aires es para amantes'.  _Under his sweatshirt was taped a bundle of money.  This was necessary camouflage for whenever he came back to the United States.  It had worked so far.  

                Eventually his time came.  Dr. Lecter smiled and raised his eyebrows at the immigations official. He handed over an expertly forged passport and waited.  

                "How long were you abroad?" the bored official asked.  

                "Oh…uh…err…,right around two weeks, I guess," Dr. Lecter said diffidently, with a hayseed accent.  "It's on the itinerary."  He reached for a piece of paper stuck into the waistband of his pants.  

                "No, that's OK," the official said, and stamped something in the passport.  He handed it back to Dr. Lecter.  Ever so calmly, Dr. Lecter proceeded into the airport.  He rolled his bag behind him.  He was ever watchful.  Uniforms attracted his eye and then passed off.   What concerned him more were men in calm, workaday suits who might fall into place behind him.  Those worried him more.  

                But they'd had the best chance to detain him at Customs, and they hadn't.  Dr. Hannibal Lecter walked down to the car-rental desks and offered the driver's license of a second identity as well as a credit card.  He got back a rental agreement and the keys to a tinny Chevy with no power at all.  Definitely automotive slumming; nothing with the power he preferred. 

                As he drove, he pondered.  

                There were a few possibilities.  The ad could be a trap.  Perhaps Clarice was somewhere in a hotel, guarded by FBI agents.  When he showed up they would put the cuffs on him.  His rare mind flicked back to the ad he had placed.  _Hannah – I am on my way.  Please tell me where I may find you. A. A. Aaron.  _There had been no answering reply in the _Tribune _as of yet.  

                Or was it real?  Was Clarice in trouble?  Perhaps she _had _been kidnapped in order to get access to him.  In any case, he would have to be extremely careful.  

                It had been far easier with Mason Verger, Dr. Lecter decided.  Then, he had known his foe.  Now, he would have to track Clarice as best he could.  Pity that he hadn't been able to get his hands on the FBI's files.  He knew they would be tracking her case.  As an active FBI agent, Clarice fell into their bailiwick.  

                He drove to Baltimore and checked into a hotel there.  His suite was exquisite.  In the morning, he would have to arm himself.  That was easy; there were plenty of gun shows and knife shops he could patronize.  For the time being, he ordered room service.  The food was excellent.  Tomorrow he would need to set about finding Clarice.  

                …

                Consciousness came back slowly.  His head hurt.  He tried to shift position and found that he could not.  He tried to bring his hand to his face and found he couldn't do that either.  

                Josh Graham groaned and shifted his head back and forth.  He was lying on a bed.  Soft cotton sheets covered him up to the chest.  The room was dark.  There was a figure sitting in a chair with him.  

                "What the…what happened?" Josh asked drowsily. 

                "You've been asleep for a few hours," the figure replied.  "You should be all right, though.  Now you're safe and with me."  

                Josh's head felt heavy and he let it fall back against the pillow.  "I…I can't move."  

                "I've had to tie you down," the figure explained.  "You need some time, Josh.  Some time to come to grips with it all.  You don't want _her, _Josh, I know you don't."  

                "Who?" His lips felt thick.  

                "Starling," the figure answered.  "Oh, she's nice and all, but she's too old for you.  She's downstairs."  The figure reached across and turned on a light.  Her eyes reflected it back at him in twin points.  Redly.  A qualm of fear transfixed him.  

                "Josh, it'll be all right," Alice Pierpont said sympathetically.  She reached down to touch him and her hands shook.  "We're meant to be together.  It's fate."  Her six-fingered hand hovered over his face as if she was afraid to make final contact with him.  

                He stared at the odd hand that had made the impressions on several corpses and shivered.  

                "You…you're the Six Fingered Killer," Josh gasped.  A confused memory of seeing her hand in the Mustang crossed his mind.  

                "Only occasionally," Alice said, and smiled tenderly.  Her eyes burned at him.  "Now you're here, and everything will be all right.  We'll be together…_forever."  _


	16. Seduction

                Will Graham was worried.  

                Josh had dropped by the night before, and since then nothing had been heard of him.  Crawford had called around ten this morning, asking if he knew what had happened.  Josh had not shown up to work.   His phone in his apartment rang unanswered.  That was unlike Josh.  After Clarice's disappearance, that sort of thing did not go unnoticed at Behavioral Sciences.  

                He'd waited for a few hours.  Fear probed his gut with cold fingers.  He kept trying to assure himself it was all right.  It wasn't working.  He knew all the horrible things that could happen.  Images of monsters past flicked through his mind.  

                Will headed out to the lobby and glanced around, as if his son might've spent the past twelve hours in the hotel gift shop or perhaps the hotel bar.  There were uniformed bellboys ready to help with his luggage, young attractive girls behind the hotel counter eager to take care of whatever needs he might have that the hotel could help him with, but no Josh.  Would one of them have seen him?  Probably not.  They'd work shifts.  

                Will adjusted his jacket and headed out into the parking lot.  The cold air of Washington in winter was not so much bracing as raw.  It stung his face, used to the kind Florida sunshine.  Snow was heaped up around the parking lot where the hotel had politely pushed it aside so that its guests could park in the parking lot.  

                Had someone seen him, they might have thought he was wandering around aimlessly.  A homeless person, perhaps, or mentally ill.  In fact, the opposite was true.  Will had been one of the best mindhunters in the business.  When he had something, he focused on it exclusively.  But when he had nothing, he had to get something.  Meandering around the parking lot was a means of opening the inner doors to contemplation and reflection.  He was trying to have an idea.  

                As he crossed the lot, he got his wish in a much more concrete manner than he wanted.  

                Parked between an SUV and a Cadillac was a ten-year-old Civic.  It was blue, and reasonably well cared for.  On the back window was a sticker with an outline of Eric Cartman from _South Park _on it.  On the driver's side window was a parking sticker for the Quantico base.  The interior of the car was relatively clean and neat.  A few file folders lay strewn on the passenger's seat.  

                Josh's car. 

                Will turned and ran back into the hotel.  A few people watched him as he ran.  He skidded to a halt in front of the elevator.  That well-made machine leisurely descended to the lobby, numbers flicking amber as it went.  Sweat broke out on the back of his neck as he waited.  He felt full of anger and fear and electricity.  His heels tapped a nervous tattoo.  

                Finally the elevator deigned to open and admit him.  Will entered the elevator and stared at his brassy reflection for several moments before hitting his floor.  As if mocking him, the elevator closed and began rising ever so slowly.  

                Back in his room, he grabbed the phone.  It was slick and smooth against his hand.  Electronic boops sounded in his ear as he punched several digits.  There was a brief wait, then the muted electronic burr of a ring.  

                "Crawford," a voice said. 

                "Crawford, it's Graham."  He paused.  "_Will _Graham."  

                "Hi, Will," Crawford said.  "Heard anything from Josh?  This isn't like him."  

                "Jack, Josh's car is still in the hotel parking lot.  From when he came to see me last night."  

                Crawford was silent for several moments.  

                "Has anyone touched it?"  

                "I don't think so," Will answered.  "Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on here?"  

                Crawford exhaled.  "Sit tight, Will," he said.  "I'm gonna call out a forensics team and have them go over the car and the hotel.  Just sit tight."  

                Will Graham had wanted to leave his demons at the FBI behind him.  He'd done that for years.  These days he thought of himself as a boat mechanic whose son was an FBI agent.  He'd found some peace there.  

                Crawford had tried to drag him back on a few other occasions, after Dolarhyde, but he'd turned them all down.  He'd never wanted to come back.  He'd served his watch; now it was time for others to take the helm.  Now, it seemed, he had little choice.  

                "What do you want me to do?" he asked, and wondered if he'd just forfeited his soul.  

                "For now, sit tight.  You're too close to the situation to do any good.  Let me do my thing and we'll find a role for you."

                The FBI moved quickly when it had to.  Perhaps twenty minutes later, an assemblage of FBI technicians surrounded the Civic.  One of the techs grabbed a slim jim and popped the car's door open easily.  Will watched them work, priests and acolytes of forensic science enacting their rituals.  He shuddered as he watched.  Behind him, Crawford walked up to him and stood by companionably.  

                "We've got the hotel's security tapes from last night," he said.  "You want to see?"  

                Will tensed, staring at his son's car as if it might tell him what had happened.  "Is there something?"  

                "Yeah," Crawford said.  

                Will went along with him to the hotel's security office.  A few men in polyester uniforms stood around and gawped at the real authorities as they crowded into the small room.  A television on a stand commanded their attention.  Crawford pointed at one of the security guards.  

                "Roll it back," he said.  

                Obediently, the guard rewound the VCR and hit play.  A black-and-white image came to flickering light on the screen.  It was the hotel's lobby.  A few people stood in a line waiting to check in.  Bellboys pushed gaudy golden carts full of luggage further into the hotel.

  Crawford pointed at a young woman sitting on a bench.  "Watch _her_." 

The elevator doors opened and a young man walked out.  Although the image was blurry and hard to see, Will recognized his son.  According to the time-date stamp, this would've been just after Josh left his room.  Everything perfectly normal.  

The young woman's head swiveled as Josh walked out of the elevator.  Her hair was dark; brown or black.  She wore a dress and opera-length gloves.  Long ones, too; they ended just below her shoulders.  That was odd; Will didn't remember having seen a woman actually wear those except at their senior proms or something like that.  A fair amount of the men on the tape seemed to be looking at her.  A fair amount of the agents watching the tape did too.   She stood and deliberately angled herself so she was in Josh's path.  One of the guards let out a whistle.  

"Man, I wouldn't mind a piece of that," he said. 

"Stow that shit," Crawford said irritably.  

Josh collided with the young woman.  Will shook his head, his blue eyes locked on the flickering gray images.  _He's always been like that.  Walks around in a fog sometimes.  _He watched his son get embarrassed and chat with the girl.  That was a bit surprising; Josh was usually shy around women.  Always had been.  It had made Will worry sometimes.  

Now they left the hotel together, or at least the field of view offered by the camera.  The security guard hit the stop button and the image of the lobby was replaced by static.  Will exhaled. 

"We have to find that girl," he said.  "She's the last person who ever saw Josh.  Where would they have gone?"  

Crawford nodded calmly.  "We're gonna take these tapes back to Quantico," he said.  "Also we're running down the concierge to see if they asked for a place to eat or get some drinks.  We'll find him, Will.  Keep your head."  

The words came rising far more easily to his lips than he ever would have thought.  

"Don't shut me out, Jack.  Keep me in the loop.  That's my boy she's got there."  

Crawford raised his eyebrows.  "You asking to come back?"  

Will Graham thought of the Six Fingered Killer and then thought of his son.  

"Yes," he said simply. 

…

 The dining room was set for two.  The lights were turned down.  Candles burned atop the table dividing it into flickering thirds.  Low music played.  

Josh Graham sat in a chair.  He wore his suit and tie.  His ankles and waist were bound to his chair with duct tape.  He watched the woman entering the room nervously.  

Alice Pierpont entered the room, carrying a covered tray that she laid down in front of him.  She removed the cover dramatically to reveal a steaming platter covered with meat.  She smiled tenderly at him.  

"Here you are, Josh," she said.  "Filet mignon.  You told me you liked your steak rare, so I made it nice and rare for you."  

She lifted off a healthy-sized steak and put it on his plate.  He looked down at it and then back up at her.  Meanwhile, she poured a glass of wine and offered it to him.  The candlelight sent maroon rays through it dancing on the tablecloth.  Then she assumed her own seat and smiled at him predatorially.  

"Who are you?" he asked.  "And what do you want with me?"  

Her face fell a bit as if disappointed, but she recovered quickly enough.  "My name is Alice," she said slowly.  "As far as what I want with you…just dinner, for now.  Eat up, Josh.  I spent a long time cooking that."  

Josh picked up his fork and prodded the steak.  It smelled like steak and looked like steak.  The knife cut into it nicely.  For a moment, he wondered if it might be…_something _else, and then he saw Alice's face begin to harden.  

It was nice and red in the middle, just the way he liked it.  Despite his fear, his stomach growled.  He cut off a piece and sampled it.  His mind screamed at him not to.  It might be Clarice, for all he knew.  It might be someone else.  It might be injected with drugs or rat poison.  

It was soft and good in his mouth.  Just steak.  He chewed and swallowed.  

"It's just steak," she said, as if reading his mind, and seemed hurt.  "You're thinking of someone else.  Try the wine."  

Josh took the wine glass and raised it to his lips.  That tasted like regular old red wine.  It was dry and tart.  He eyed the woman across the table nervously.  

"The wine is great," he said unsteadily.  "Now tell me…are you the Six Fingered Killer?"  

"Not tonight," Alice said, and began to eat herself.

He ate a little more steak.  Despite himself, he was hungry and the steak was very, very good.  And he didn't want to make her angry.  She'd kidnapped him out of his hotel pretty easily.  If she _was _the Six Fingered Killer, God only knew what she was capable of.  

"Do you have Clarice?" he asked.  

Alice made a moue.  "Clarice, Clarice, Clarice," she said.  "That's all you ever talk about.  Gramma's downstairs.  I put her in for her nap."  

"Is she alive?"  Josh pressed.  

Alice rolled her eyes.  "The last time I checked," she said irritably.  "Enough about Clarice.  It's tacky.  She's too _old _for you, Josh."  

"I'm not…no, not like that," Josh said.  "I just want to see that she's all right."  

Alice paused.  Her steak knife glinted at him, aimed at a forty-five degree angle.  The candlelight slid lovingly along the serrated edges of the blade.  

"She is all right, Josh," Alice said in a thin tone.  "She's in the basement with some Pringles.  She likes Pringles.  I read that somewhere.  Now quit talking about her, or I'll do something nasty, which you know I'm capable of doing."  

It wasn't clear who would be the recipient of her nasty behavior, and Josh didn't want to find out.  He was in a bad situation here.  He had to backpedal a bit.  Get some leverage.  She must want him for _something.  _His mind flicked back to Winfield and he found himself wondering if she was going to light him on fire or saw his hand off.   For a few minutes they both ate quietly.  

"So how is the hunt for the Six Fingered Killer going?" she asked brightly.  

"We're working on it," he promised.  "It's very likely they'll catch you.  If you let me go, I can help you."  

"You mean they're going to catch me?" Alice asked.  A sly grin crossed her face.  

Josh nodded.  "Look," he said kindly.  "We can help you."  

"I doubt they'll catch me," Alice said.  "I might point out that the two agents who know the case best are in _my _custody."  She chuckled.  

Okay.  Okay.  He had to think his way out of this.  

"Tell me a little about yourself," he said.  "What do you do?"  

Alice considered.  "I'm independently wealthy," she explained.  "I'm also an RN, but I don't always do that.   Just a few visiting-nurse jobs hither and yon to keep my certifications current and to restock my supply of drugs when it gets low.  Oh, and I have a bachelor's in chemistry."  Her eyes glittered at him in the light in amused red points.   

Josh thought about the psycho next to him looming over a helpless patient and found himself shuddering.  

"Why…why did you bring me here?" he asked.   

"It's fate," she answered easily.  

"What do you mean, fate?" he pressed.  

Alice smiled.  "I'll get dessert," she explained, and then stepped back into her kitchen.  She returned a moment later with a glass bowl.  In it she spooned a whipped brown substance.  She placed the bowl in front of him and then grasped his wrists.  She was wearing the gloves again, he noticed.  Her grip was surprisingly strong.  His own handcuffs ratcheted shut around his wrists.  Where the hell had she kept them, anyway?  

Alice took the bowl and picked up a spoon.  She dipped it into the bowl and came up with a spoonful of chocolate mousse.  Her left hand remained on his wrists, holding them down.  Josh found himself feeling vaguely humiliated.  But he took the spoonful of mousse.  It was powerfully sweet.  

Calmly, Alice fed him the entire bowl.  A pleased smile crossed her face.  A sort of electricity crackled between the two of them; tense and electrical.  Controlled, but still there.   Once she was done, she carefully wiped his face as if he was a child.  Then she cut the duct tape holding his ankles and waist free and brought him into a sitting room.  Already waiting were two cappuccinos.  

"It's fate," Alice repeated, as if just answering the question.  "I knew it when I got Starling. When I called you that was a joke.  But then I was thinking.  My father has Starling. Why should I not have you, then?"  

Josh Graham sipped the cappuccino and eyed her nervously.  He could feel sweat on the back of his neck.  He felt sort of dopey again.  The room seemed to pulse.  What the hell was going on?  But he focused on her words.  

"Your…father?"  

Alice nodded.  "Dr. Lecter is my biological father," she said and blinked several times.  "Golly Jeepers, Josh, where'd you think I got these peepers?"  She smiled predatorily at him and slid her arms around him.  "But I don't want to talk about that.  Later.  But I do have another confession to make." 

Josh tilted his head.   Everything seemed swimmy and floaty.  What had she done to him?   

"I…don't like…when you say that," he rasped.   "You…you drugged me, didn't you?"  

Alice smiled calmly.  "Yes," she said.  "Not morphine, not GHB like I used last time.  It's Dostinex, Josh.  Better than Viagra, so they say."   Her arms slid around him again and she guided him to the couch.  Her fingers began working calmly at the buttons of his shirt.  Josh inhaled the scent of warm girl near him and felt himself respond. 

Josh Graham had always been a shy, inhibited boy who became a shy, inhibited man.  Yet now his inhibitions seemed to flow away like wet paper.  Plus he was sporting a regular old railspike.  The fact that she was a serial killer who had kidnapped him no longer seemed to matter.  The fact that he was an FBI agent didn't seem to matter either.  All that mattered was that he was ready and she sure seemed to be.  His arms came up and curled around her.  Alice smiled tightly again.  

He rolled over atop her.  His hands groped for her body.  The drug pounded deep in his brain, awakening his lizard mind.  She brought him down to her, eager and welcoming.  

"Oh, _Joshua," _Alice cooed.


	17. Unforeseen Consequences

Will Graham sat in his hotel room.  He was trying to think.  He had to figure out a way in which to catch the psycho who had his son and Clarice. He had all the files from Clarice's disappearance.  It was hard.  He kept flashing back to Josh's childhood.  Josh at two, giggling madly as he ran into the kitchen.  Josh at five, visiting him in the hospital when Dr. Lecter had tried to carve him up.  Josh at eleven, with Francis Dolarhyde's shard of glass pressing into his cheek.  

He had to think.  Josh needed him.  Will Graham knew all too well what monsters lurked in the world.  Images of Josh captured somewhere, lying in a cage while a psycho killer approached him flashed across his brain.  It made it impossible to try and focus. 

Clarice, then.  He would focus on Clarice.  It would be vastly easier to concentrate on Clarice.  He didn't know her. A lot of the notes from Clarice's disappearance were his son's work.  Will bit his lip and forced himself to pay attention to them as if any other FBI agent had written them.  

Clarice had gotten a phone call.  The phone call itself had been placed from a pay phone.  No leads there.  Josh had told him about that.  They hadn't gotten any notes from her desk.  That made sense.  Will Graham closed his eyes and envisioned Clarice Starling.   

_She's sitting at her desk.  Quitting time is coming near.  A call comes in and she takes it.  It's something that gets to her.  Something that she agrees to see the person for, and the person gets her.  She scribbles down something on a piece of paper and puts it in her pocket.  It gets taken along with her to her rendezvous with someone who grabs her. _

Now wait. Clarice is an FBI agent; she's had Hannibal Lecter on her case before.  She's not dumb.  She's not naïve.  She doesn't tell anyone where she's going.  She doesn't tell Josh.  That means…that means it's not part of the case.  If it was she'd have told Josh; she doesn't keep secrets or play that political bullshit.  Why would she do that?  What happened?

Will's eyes were blank.  Someone seeing him might have thought him the village idiot, or the drunk he had admittedly been for years until he finally quit the booze once and for all.  The opposite was true.  In his brain, ideas and thoughts were shuttling across the mosaic of the mystery and falling neatly into place.  _Click, click, click._  

_She doesn't tell anyone because she doesn't view the caller as a threat. Now who do FBI agents talk to who aren't threats?  Witnesses, for one.  Well…that depends on the witness.  Clarice isn't working any other cases that we know of; she's working the Six Fingered Killer case exclusively.  Maybe it's a witness she worked with before.  Or maybe…she thinks it's a victim.  _

Now **there **is something.  Clarice goes and gets herself grabbed.  Not because she's a doofus, but because she's sensitive to victims.  The Six Fingered Killer made Clarice think of her as a victim. That works. Clarice shows up ready to deal with someone wounded, someone hurt, and instead gets a loony who stuffs her in the trunk.  Now the question.  Do we have anything at all we can use?  I think we can.  

Clarice Starling sitting at her desk, scribbling down a note and shoving it in her pocket.  She takes the note, but she doesn't take everything.  Does she have a desk blotter?  Did she leave the pad she used?  Either one of those will have impressions, and from impressions we may be able to get something.  

He grabbed his phone and punched a number.  Crawford answered.  

"Jack, it's Will."  

"What's up, Will?" Crawford's voice was measured as it always was.  

"Has anyone checked over Clarice's desk since her disappearance?"  

Crawford waited a beat before answering.  "Josh did," he said.  "Nothing in his notes that I see."  

"Go down there now and seal it off.  I think we can find some impressions there.  Either a desk blotter, or a pad of paper…or maybe the folder itself.  We might have something."  He got up and began to pace the room.  "I think the Six Fingered Killer contacted Clarice and passed herself off as a victim of some kind.  Something that would've pressed Clarice's sympathy buttons.  That's why the UNSUB got her so easily."  

Crawford sounded pleased.  "Good work, Will," he said.  "I'll go down there now and have the contents of her desk sent to the labs."  

"Just paper," Will insisted.  "Her desk blotter, if she's got one.  Pads of paper.  Maybe a manila folder, particularly one that has to do with the Six Fingered Killer.  I don't know if it'll be good, but I think it is."  

"We'll get on it," Crawford said.  "Good idea, Will.  Keep your chin up.  We'll find them."  

Will hung up and waited.  It was a good idea.  He lit a cigarette and puffed on it, illogically convinced that the phone would ring.  

Of course it won't ring right away, he told himself.  It takes time.  They have to scan it, find impressions, and do their thing.  

But a few minutes later the phone did ring.  Will grabbed the receiver immediately.  

"Graham," he said instantly.  

For a beat or two there was silence.  Then a metallic voice came on the line.  

"Is this Will?  Hello, Will.  It's been a long time, hasn't it?"  

A chill tickled Will Graham's gut.  His hand clamped down hard on the receiver.  

"Dr. Lecter?" he asked.  His voice was low and shuddering and weak.  

"Yes."  Dr. Lecter sounded amused.  "Will, I assure you I have no intent on harming you.  You sound nervous."  

"What do you want with me?" Will whispered.  "What have you done with my son, you sick son of a bitch?"  

Now there was a bit of confusion in Dr. Lecter's voice, counterpointing the amusement.  

"Your son?  I haven't met the lad, I'm afraid.  No, Will, perhaps we could help each other."  

An incredulous, bitter laugh came from Will's throat.  "Me?  Help you?  And for that matter, why would you help me?"  

Dr. Lecter let out a sigh as if Will was being rude.  "I realize that you're probably helping the FBI.  After all, your boy is working for them now.  Nonetheless, Will, all I want is to find Clarice.  I suspect, as I believe you do, that the same kidnapper has both your Joshua and Clarice.  Most probably someone who shares my particular…difference from the rest of humanity."  

"You mean it's a monster like you," Will hissed, feeling anger rise deep in his gut.  

"I suppose you could say that," Dr. Lecter agreed.  "I was referring to the Six Fingered Killer threatening Washington and Baltimore, actually.   This pilgrim feels a connection with me, Will.  I can help you catch him.  Just like…old times."  

"Her," Will said grittily, and grinned.  Dr. Lecter didn't know everything. 

"You believe the killer to be female?"  Dr. Lecter sounded interested.  

"That's a theory."  

"Then let us cooperate, Will.  You want your boy; I want Clarice safe.  You needn't tell Jacky-boy.  He'll give you everything you need.  I assure you I'll keep my distance."  

Will Graham thought.  Dr. Hannibal Lecter was a monster.  Of that Will had no doubt.  He knew firsthand what the doctor was capable of.  If he needed any further proof he just had to take off his shirt.  

But with Josh's life on the line, could he take the chance?  Perhaps the doctor was serious.  Will knew a little bit of the psychiatrist's connection to Clarice.  Maybe, just as he had once before, he could use the help.  

"Well, Will?  What do you say?"  Dr. Lecter chuckled.  "For old time's sake?"  

…

                While Will Graham waited on the cusp of his decision, Josh Graham was coming to grips with his own decision of the previous night.  

                He sat on Alice Pierpont's basement floor.  Against his back was a thick round pole.  His hands were looped around the pole and handcuffed there.  About ten feet away was Clarice's cage.   They could see each other and they could talk, but they could not reach each other.  

                Clarice sat in the cage, wearing the jumpsuit she had originally been given to wear in Alice's private prison.  She gave him a sympathetic look.  Around her were the supplies Alice had given her.  She'd been munching on Pringles when Alice brought him down here.  At the time, Alice had been calm and cool.  She didn't seem manic or depressed.   Then she had gone back upstairs to do whatever she did when she wasn't tormenting either FBI agent.  

                "Clarice," Josh said.  "You're alive.  Thank God."  

                Clarice nodded.  "I'm alive," she confirmed.  "I've been here for several days.  Maybe a week."  She gestured around herself.  "Here, in this cage."  

                Josh shuddered.  She looked like a prisoner to him, all right.  The bars made shadows on her face.  She seemed somehow defeated, as if her captivity had sapped her of a vital strength.  Her face looked gaunter than it had been.  Was Alice feeding her?   He thought of the dinner he'd had before Alice seduced him and felt ashamed.  

                "What…what does she want with us?" he asked.  

                Clarice's face tightened.  "For me," she said, "she wants to use me as…I don't know, bait.  To draw Dr. Lecter."  

                Josh seemed surprised to hear that.  "She said he was her father," he said.  

Clarice nodded.  "She looks like him," she pointed out.  

Josh thought on that for a few moments.  "But Dr. Lecter never had any children," he said.  "It wasn't in his file."  

Clarice let out a bitter chuckle.  "Then the file was obviously wrong," she said.  "Look at her.  Six fingers like him.  Maroon eyes like him."  She gestured at Alice's marked-up mugshot of the good doctor.  "A violent killer like him.  But she's not totally like him.  She's mentally ill."  

Josh shuddered.  "If she did the corpse in the park, then yeah," he said.  "So she wants you to get to Lecter.  Is that going to work?"  

Clarice nodded.  She glanced away.  "I don't know," she said softly.

Josh shifted his position and tried to get some comfort for his arms where they were cuffed to the pole.  He swallowed.  

"What about me?" he asked.  "Does she say what she wants to do with me?"  

Clarice sighed and tried to reach out to him through the bars.  He was too far away for her to even touch.  This wasn't going to be easy.  

"Well," she said.  "She…she saw you.  At first I think it was just a joke.  Then she decided that you were…hers, somehow.  That you and her were supposed to be together."  

Josh blanched.  His shoulders tensed.  Behind his back, his hands shook.  

"So…so I've got some serial killer obsessed with me," he said.  

Clarice nodded.  

Josh laid the back of his head against the pole.  "Oh, man," he said.  "Now what do I do?  I mean…she can't really think we're going to be together.  That's just crazy.  She's just crazy.  I just…this can't…there's no way."

"She does," Clarice assured him.  "She's got a lot of information about you.  She thinks that you're supposed to be together.  That it's fate, or something like that."  

Josh shuddered again.  "Lucky me," he said acidly.  "A dangerous serial killer is obsessed with me."    

Clarice's mouth quirked.  "Oh, you get used to it eventually," she said drily.  

 "Is Dr. Lecter going to come, do you think?"  Josh asked again.  He didn't particularly want to think of the woman upstairs as being obsessed with him.  He could've written off last night to being heavily drugged.  To think that Alice would pursue him for the rest of his life was frightening.  He'd already seen his own father haunted by the specter of Dr. Lecter.  He would rather that not follow generational lines.    

Clarice shrugged.  "I'm not sure," she said.  "I'd like to hope he would.  But I'm not sure he will.  Crawford told me once, and he was right.  Never forget what he is."  

                Josh had heard this himself, from the time he was very young.  His father had not told him about Hannibal Lecter by name until he was much older, but he had heard his father mention it in whispered conversations and hushed asides.  

                "He's a monster," he said reflectively.  "So is she."  

                Clarice shrugged.  "It's not totally her fault," Clarice said.  "She is what she is, and she probably needs to be locked up.  But Dr. Lecter isn't mentally ill.  She's bipolar.  I don't know if she's legally insane or not, but…it's not all her fault."

                Josh shuddered.  He hadn't been with Behavioral Science too long, but he had studied serial killers in college and in the Academy.  He'd seen what they had done.  Whether or not they were troubled made little difference to him.  

                "Crazy or not, she's a monster," he said.  

                A sudden slam of the door above made both of them jump.  Josh felt a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach.  Footsteps came down the stairs.  His hands clenched.  

                Alice Pierpont came down and observed the two of them bloodlessly.  Very calmly, she strode to a point between the two of them.  She reached overhead and grabbed something, stretching high to grab it.  She tossed it in Josh's lap.  He tensed.  A microphone.  She'd wired the place for sound.  It was the oldest trick in the book – put two prisoners who trust each other in a room together, get the hell out, and listen to what they have to say.  

                "Well, Josh, Clarice," she said.  "I guess things aren't quite how I thought they were.  I'm…hurt."  

                Clarice reached out through the bars, displaying open palms.  Josh tensed.  Was this cowardice or manipulation?  

                "Alice, please," Clarice said.  "It's not what you think."  

                Alice nodded curtly.  "Of course it isn't," she said.  "Nooo, you don't think I ought to be locked up.  You just…were joking, right?"  Her voice was frosty.  Her throat worked.  Josh was amazed to see tears glitter in her eyes.  

                She eyed him coldly.   His mind spun.  A linoleum knife couldn't be far off in his future.  

                "Look," Josh said, trying frantically to buy time.  "You gotta see how this looks for us here."  

                "No, I don't," she said.  "I think it's better that…I be away from both of you for a bit.  It'll give me some time.  Time to think."  

                Clarice seemed to realize what was going to happen before Josh did.  

                "Alice, wait," she implored.  "Can we talk about this?  I think you're going to go do something to someone, and you're not mad at them.  You're mad at us.  Don't…don't make an innocent person pay the price for what we did."  

                Alice stopped and tilted her head, resembling her father eerily.  

                "Why, Clarice, you didn't learn from Christine," she said.  "I never choose truly innocent victims.  I choose people who do deserve it in some way.  And trust me…it's safer for both of you if I leave for a bit."  Her mouth worked.  

                "Alice, please," Clarice said.  "Please, let's talk about this."  

                "I'm crazy, and a monster," Alice said.  "I don't think that would be appropriate. I do need you, Clarice, and Josh….well, Josh, as mad as I am at you, I still don't want to hurt you.  And I'm afraid if I stick around here and chitchat I'll do something I regret.   Besides, I know just who needs it the most." 

                "Alice," Clarice said a third time, but it was too late.  Her only answer was the thump of heels on stairs.  The door overhead slammed shut, locking them in.  A second later, the lights cut out, leaving both Clarice and Josh in the darkness.  Very faintly, a car engine roared to life.  

                "So, wait a minute," Josh began.  "Is she going to…,"  

                Clarice's face was not visible in the darkness anymore.  But her voice trembled in fear as she spoke, and Josh somehow knew she was dead pale.  

                "Yes," Clarice said.  "We just killed somebody."  


	18. Family Matters

                _Cherchez la femme, _Will Graham thought.  

                He was down in Quantico.  The place spooked him out.  It was much as it had been when he had been an active agent.  The same dark corridors, the same offices.  Here was the lair of the mindhunters.  They set forth from these dark underground hallways and hunted down unspeakable monsters.  

                But some things had changed.  Their science was far superior.  It occurred to Will that while he still might be useful as a mindhunter, the forensic science he had known twenty years ago was archaic.  When he'd been active, he'd thought it was state of the art.  Now it was all pushed aside, out of date, and worthless.  

                A young computer tech Josh's age was busy with the videotape from the hotel.  Will watched him work.  The video from the tape fed into a computer and appeared on the monitor.  For a moment Will had to shake his head.  

                "How do you hook the VCR to the computer?"  he asked. 

                The tech looked up at him. White light from the monitor reflected in his glasses.  "Firewire," he said distractedly.  

                Will Graham didn't know what Firewire was.  

                "Getting anything?" he asked hopefully.  

                The tech scowled.  "No," he said.  "This videotape is _lousy.  _And she never faces the camera dead on.  Best I can do is to work on this shot here."  He grabbed the mouse and slid the image on the screen back to where the woman on the screen turned, her profile to the camera.  "Can't tell much other than that she's cute and she's got dark hair.  Dark eyes, too, it looks like.  But at this distance I can't tell."  He let out a sigh.  

                Will nodded.  "Can you tell her age?" he tried.  

                The tech shook his head.  "Not from this picture," he said with distaste.  He printed up a copy and handed it to Will.   "There you go," he said.  "It's not great, but it's a start.  At least you know she's not blonde."  

                Will took the picture and looked at it.  Yes, it was a lousy picture.  But something had struck him as familiar about it.  He couldn't put his finger on what.  

                He cleared his throat.  "Who would I talk to for a copy of the folder?" he asked.  

                The tech glanced at him sideways.  "I can do that for you," he said guardedly, and tapped out a few keystrokes.  A moment later, the laser printer in the corner of the room began to hum.  

                "Everything's digitized," he said.  "You can grab a folder from wherever you want."  

                Will did.  For a moment, he sighed.  Of all the things he had ever thought he would do, this was the last.  He'd done it once before, but the circumstances had been radically different.    

                He was gathering a file for Dr. Hannibal Lecter's use.  

                Will swallowed.  He gathered up the file and returned to his car, muttering something about wanting to see the file alone.  That made him think of Chesapeake, all those years ago.  The good doctor, examining the file Will had put in his document carrier.  _Do you mind if I do it privately?  Give me an hour…_  How filmed with thought his eyes had been.   

                Once back in his room, he waited.  Dr. Lecter had told him to take his DO NOT DISTURB sign and stick it out the bottom of his door, halfway out, as if it had fallen.  After that, he was to take the room-service menu and put it in the window.  He did those things and sat down in the anonymous little hotel room that had been the last place he'd ever seen his son.  Was Dr. Lecter outside in the hallway, or was he spying on Will from somewhere else?  Not knowing was the most unnerving part.  

                But he had to do this.  Josh was his _son.  _The FBI had used them; it was fair for him to use them.  He was back in the FBI after all these years, but he had not always been an FBI agent.  He would always be Josh's father.  

                Cooperate with Dr. Lecter.  It made perfect sense and it was completely mad.  Cooperating with the doctor when he was safely locked away made sense.  Cooperating with the doctor while he was free?  Now that was terrifying.  

                The phone interrupted his reverie.  He lifted the receiver with dread.  

                "Hello, Will," Dr. Hannibal Lecter said.  

                "Dr. Lecter," Will said through dry lips.  Even after all these years, his fear of the doctor was back instantly as a striking snake.  

                "Did you get a file for me?"  

                "Yes," Will snapped.  

                "Very good," Dr. Lecter said.  "I'll need it.  Open your door, please."  

                Will tensed.  "Are you…?" 

                "Open your door, please."  

                Will padded over to the door and opened it.  His hand trembled on the knob.  Part of him wanted to put down the phone and pick up his gun.  

                Dr. Lecter was not there.  Will frowned and turned his head.  _There _he was, standing twenty feet down the hall in front of an open door.  He smiled pleasantly at Will and hung up his cellular phone.  

                Will swallowed.  Dr. Lecter was staying just a few doors down from him?  Goosebumps prickled his skin.  This was about the uneasiest alliance he'd ever been part of.  Dr. Lecter stepped back into his room and gestured for him to follow.  Will did, his tongue dry and his eyes watchful.  The weight of the revolver on his belt was comforting.  

                When he entered the room, Dr. Lecter was already sitting at his table.  He gestured for Will to join him.  

                "Good afternoon, Will," Dr. Lecter said politely.  "Would you care for a cup of coffee?  I'd offer you wine, but I understand you know longer drink."  

                The words were kind, but Dr. Lecter's eyes were mocking.  For a moment Will wondered if he could see into his mind.   The years of drinking and the toll they had taken flashed through him.  No, the doctor could not know everything; he simply pressed the buttons he felt would cause the most fun.  

                _Never forget what he is.  _

 Dr. Lecter took the file and gave Will a cup of coffee in exchange.  It was strong and good, and Will found himself liking it despite himself.  He allowed Dr. Lecter a few minutes to study the file.  For his part, the cannibalistic psychiatrist seemed interested only in the file, reading it and pondering.  Will's hand twitched above the grip of the pistol.  He could feel sweat on his palms.  He did not take his eyes off the man in the chair.  

                "Interesting," Dr. Lecter mused.  He held up a picture.  "You can barely make it out, but the woman in _this _picture has the normal amount of fingers on her hand."  

                Will stared hard at the doctor.  "So do you," he pointed out.  

                "Surgically," Dr. Lecter admitted, and held up his scarred hand.  "Perhaps that's what the gloves are for.  She might be self-conscious about the scar.  But then it would have been _quite _recent, Will.   If this is the woman you seek, she had six fingers on her left hand as lately as a week ago."  

                Will continued to observe the doctor as if he was a mad dog who might attack at any moment.  Then an idea began to sink into him.  The same dark hair, pale skin.  The doctor's scarred hand versus the Six Fingered Killer's…and the woman in gloves.  

                "You never had any children, did you?" Will asked suspiciously.  

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter put the file down for a moment and eyed Will for a moment.  He seemed nonplussed.  Will's eyes narrowed as he carefully studied the other man's reactions.  

                "Don't be silly, Will," Dr. Lecter said.  "Of course not."  

                Will Graham was afraid, but he was not a coward.  Neither was he stupid.  As he studied the doctor, he was sure of it.  Yes, there it was.  

                Dr. Lecter was not lying, per se.  But he was beginning to wonder himself.  Will could see the questioning in his eyes.  Perhaps it was madness, an attempt to create a connection where none existed.  Will knew better than to ask the doctor.  He'd check that one out himself.  

                _Good Lord, _he thought.  _Does Hannibal Lecter have a daughter?  Does she have my son?_

  …

                The guesthouse was rich without being ostentatious.  It stood by the mansion as if it was a lady-in-waiting to the grand dame.  It was much smaller than the manse itself, but quite comfortable inside.  It also had its own driveway and entrance to the grounds, which Alice appreciated.   She wanted privacy.

                She could hear music blasting from the house as she pulled into the driveway and parked.  The main house itself was some distance away. Eddie's large and ostentatious SUV was parked so that it hid her Mustang anyways.   Dearest Mummy wouldn't know she was here.  Not until it was too late.  

                 She slipped from the car and strode purposefully up to the door.  Loud rock music blared from inside.  When she pressed the door, it slipped open.  Alice stuck her head in and then entered.  

                She spoke to herself in a low tone.   The words were not her own.  She'd read them years ago in school.  They spoke eloquently to her, though, and she'd always wanted to say them. 

"Why bastard? Wherefore base?  When my dimensions are as well compact, my mind as generous, and my shape as true, as honest father's issue? Why brand they us with base? With baseness? Bastardy? Base, base?"  

                By any objective standards, the guesthouse was exquisite.  The furniture was expensive.  Silk wallpaper decorated the walls.  A Matisse print graced the foyer.  A chandelier lit the entranceway.  Alice smiled coldly.  Her dear old mother, spending money faster than her stepfather could make it.  

                Edgar Morgan III slouched on the sofa in the living room.  In one hand he held a crystal glass half-filled with whiskey.  In the other he held a cigar.  His eyes were bloodshot and his face slack and flushed.  He observed his older half-sister with sardonic humor.  

                There was little resemblance between the two.  No one looking at them would have ever thought they shared a parent or that they had been carried in the same womb.  The only thing that did bind Alice Pierpont to Edgar Morgan was their sociopathic nature.  In his own way, Edgar Morgan III was as monstrous as his sibling.  The only difference was that he slaked his lusts for the flesh rather than lusts for blood.   His victims were left alive, but he cared no more for their aftermaths than Alice cared for her victims.

                "Alice," he slurred.  "Hey, sis.  What the hell are you doing here?"  

                Alice smiled coldly at him.  "Eddie," she said briskly.  "How are you?"  

                He raised the glass in a drunken salute.  "I'm…I'm partying," he said.  "Having me a _good _time."  

                "I'd be careful of that if I were you," she said.  "You _are _out on bail.  For rape charges, no less."  

                He shook his head and took another drag on his cigar.  Alice's nostrils flared.  The aroma was pungent and unpleasant.  

                "Nuh-_uh, _sis," he said.  "I'm not guilty.  Gonna beat the rap."  He laughed at the thought.  "Beat…the…rap."    

                Alice chuckled shortly.  "You mean Mommy's going to beat it for you.  Or try, as she always has.  She'll either intimidate the victim into recanting or try and break her into doing so.  You did it, Eddie.  I know you.  You never learned consequences."  She chuckled and shook her head.  Her dark hair slid back and forth.  

                Eddie shook his head mutely.  Alice didn't think he was actually claiming innocence, per se.  He simply didn't think he'd done anything wrong.  Which is why this would be so much fun.  

                "Who's the lucky girl for tonight?" Alice asked brightly.  

                Eddie shrugged.  "This chick Trish," he said.  "You don't know her."  He grinned and swayed back and forth drunkenly.  Yes, he was three sheets to the wind, Alice thought.  Along with some pillowcases and a few towels.     "We were partying out at a couple clubs.  She's on the big…X.  Both of us."  

                Alice nodded calmly.  "Ecstasy," she said.  "I see."  

                "You ought to try screwing on it," Eddie informed her.  "Blows your goddam _mind.  _C'mon, didn't you party over in jolly old fuckin' England?"  

                "I had fun, yes," Alice allowed, "although _my _idea of fun doesn't involve quite so many psychoactive substances as yours."  

                Eddie blinked owlishly.  

                "Besides, dear Eddie, you're wasting your money.  You're so drunk the Ectasy is barely going to make a dent in you.  How many have you had?"  

                Eddie's eyes rolled up in his head as he pondered.  "Ummm…about twenty, I guess.  I sort of lost count."  

                "Of course," Alice said.  "Here, let me refill your glass."  She picked up the crystal glass and strode neatly across the living room, legs smooth in sheer black hose.  Her heels rapped against the parquet floor.  If Mom were checking out the guesthouse from the main house, she'd simply think Eddie had gotten himself another girl.  Wouldn't be the first time, either.  There wasn't much amongst the bacchanal that Edgar Morgan III had not tried. 

There was a nice wooden bar with a full sink set up in one corner.  Alice reached down and selected a bottle of Jack Daniel's.  Sweet and powerful, and one of her brother's favorites.    Her brother watched her desultorily as dark amber liquid cascaded into the glass.  

                "Are those new gloves?" Eddie asked.  

                Alice dropped a few ice cubes into his glass and glanced over her shoulder at him.  "Yes," she said calmly.  

                "Those look nice," he said.  For a moment, she was surprised. Was he actually learning some manners?  

                He didn't surprise her after all.  "Sexy," he said.  "Kind of fetishy, don't you think?"  

                "I think I'm your sister, and you shouldn't think of me like that, you degenerate," Alice said, and slipped a small envelope out of the top of one glove.  She poured a small quantity of white powder into his drink.  Stirring it dissolved it satisfactorily.   She gave it back to him and watched him drink.  The dope she'd put it in should be tasteless; he would expect nothing.  

                "Well, _excuuuuse _me," Eddie said blearily.   "Just saying it, that's all."  

                Across the hall, a door opened.  A young woman appeared in the doorway.  Party girl, Alice thought immediately.  She wore a short, tight dress.  Her blond hair cascaded over her head in a crass style.  _Honestly, _Alice thought.  _Farah Fawcett was a **loooong **time ago, kiddo._  Her features were pretty but vapid.  An expression of ire crossed her face as she examined Alice and scanned her for competitive advantage.  

                Alice smiled disarmingly.  "Hi," she said sweetly, and held out her hand.  "I'm Alice.  I'm Eddie's sister."  

                The other girl's expression eased as she realized there would be no battle today.  Well, not how _she _was expecting.  Then a look of confusion crossed her face.  

                "I didn't know Eddie had a sister," she said.  

                Alice smiled tightly.  "It's sort of the family secret," she explained.  "I'm his half-sister.  We have different fathers."  

                The girl nodded with disinterest and sat down next to Eddie on the couch.  As if a switch had been thrown, they set to drunken necking.  They appeared not to care in the slightest that Alice was present or watching.  

                Alice watched them crawl over each other like drunken goats for a few moments.  Then she gathered her purse and headed for the bathroom the other girl had just vacated.  

                In her purse she had a surgical gown, folded up to fit in the purse, as well as a pair of latex gloves.  She put on the gloves and then the robe, reaching around to tie the gown in the back.  There was a plastic bag in the purse as well, for when she was done.  For what she'd paid for these custom-made gloves, she wanted to avoid getting blood on them if she could.  

                At the bottom of her purse was another knife.  It was much like the twin Tanto knives she had; the same model, and the same San Mai III steel.  A mean knife for a mean world.  But it wasn't her knife.  She'd ordered it from a knife shop on the Internet, using one of Eddie's credit card numbers.  Obtaining the numbers themselves had been easy.  Any waitress at any of Eddie's favorite clubs could have gotten it multiple times.  Alice herself had simply arranged to bump into him at a club several months ago and simply memorized the number when he bought a round of drinks.  

                This knife differed from hers in one other way:  the monogram EM III was engraved at the base of the blade.  She wanted to make this as easy as possible for the authorities.  Engraving 'MURDER WEAPON' on the blade would've been just a little too much.   

                She'd wanted to do something to Eddie for years.  Now just seemed like the perfect time.  It got her mind off Clarice and Josh.  She needed Clarice to find her father.  Besides, she'd come to like her.  And Josh?  Josh was hers, hers the way Clarice Starling was her father's.  It was meant to be.  But sometimes she would have to be away from him so that she did not hurt him.  

                But for now she was benefiting the public good.  All these people did was consume large amount of drugs and indulge themselves in empty, pointless sex.  She thought of her prior union with Josh, the night before, and a catlike smile crossed her face.  

                "Now, gods, stand up for bastards!" she said to herself in the mirror.

                Had they gotten to it yet?  She tilted her head and listened.  Heavy panting and moans came from the other room.  Alice stepped out of her shoes and crept down the hallway.  Her feet were silent on the wooden floor.  Eddie might try and begin the act, but he wouldn't be able to finish the deal.  She glanced around cautiously.  Yes, there was his glass on the table.  Empty, no less.  What a lush.   

                Sure enough, Eddie was slumped unconscious atop his girl of the evening.  She was making noise about her displeasure as Alice re-entered the room.  

                "Eddie?  C'mon, Eddie…what the _fuck?_"  the girl whined.  

                Alice appeared over them like a vision of death, her maroon eyes glowing.  Yes, she felt _much _better.  

                "I'm sorry, he's in a drunken stupor right now," Alice said merrily.  "Can I take a message?"  

                She grabbed Eddie's arm and rolled his limp form off the couch.  A meaty _thud _echoed in the room as he landed.  Alice ignored it, the knife held high.  The girl saw the knife and stared at it for a few moments as it descended.  Only a few moments too late did she realize that this _wasn't _a fun trip after all.  

                The knife shuddered as it entered her victim's abdomen.  The girl let out a scream, which was swiftly stopped up as Alice clamped her hand over the girl's mouth.  With controlled ferocity she stabbed Trish five or six more times.  Then, satisfied that she was dead or dying, Alice leaned down.  

                She picked up Eddie's limp form and held him over the blood as if painting him with a crimson power-sprayer.  For a few moments he soaked in the blood of the dying girl.  Then, satisfied, she turned him on his back and lowered him to the floor.  It took only a moment to lift the knife and put it in his hand, clamping hers over his so there would be good fingerprints for the cops to find.  

                He'd be out until the cops got here.  Alice returned to the bathroom, put her shoes back on, and put her surgical robe and gloves in the trash bag she had brought along with her.  Checking herself in the mirror revealed no blood.  

                She walked back into the abattoir and observed the slaughter scene calmly.  Eddie lay on his back on the floor, the knife by his hand.  His girlie was quite dead.  All for the best.  Mother would be _so furious when she found out.  Eddie's bail would be revoked.  Her precious little boy was going back to jail for the time being.  _

                And she felt _so much better.  _

                But now she had to ensure that the cops got here first.  There was an easy way to do that.  Trish's purse was near her corpse, and Alice rooted through the junk in it until she found what she wanted.  A cell phone.   Perfect.  The authorities would instantly identify the house phone.   The cell phone would buy her a few more minutes.  

                Alice dialed 911 and waited a moment.  

                "911 emergency," a voice said.  

                She took a deep breath.  "Oh my _GOD! " she screamed.  "_He's **killing **me!  Help!   Help!"  __

Eddie snorted and twitched on the floor.  

                "Ma'am, can you tell me your location?" the tinny voice on the other end asked.  

                Alice dropped the phone and walked out the door without dallying.  Figure five minutes for them to track the phone to the right location.  Another five for the cruisers to roll.  More than enough time to get away, but not enough time to sit around and admire her handiwork.  

                The Mustang boomed down the driveway and out to the road.  Then it was another several minutes on some back roads until she picked up the highway.  Alice circled the highway a few times, just in case she was being tailed.  Nothing in her rearview.  Nothing at all.  

                On the way home, she decided to pick up some ice cream.  A talk with Clarice would be nice, now that she was feeling more in control and less upset.  She'd have to bring Josh up to the bedroom; she'd want some girl-talk time with Clarice.  Two tubs of double-chocolate-fudge ice cream served as refreshment.  Clarice would appreciate that.  After that, a little chat with Josh.  

                After all, kissing and making up was the _best _part.


	19. Detective Work

                Josh Graham awoke with a start.  He wasn't in the basement he had been kept in before.  No, he was in a bed.  He tried to shift position and discovered he couldn't.  Something was clamped on his right wrist and his left ankle, stretching him out.   He looked up and saw a handcuff linking his right wrist to the bedpost.  Glancing down showed there was a stout rope around his ankle.  His left arm was not bound, he still could not use it to defend himself.  

                The reason for this was that he was not alone in the bed.  Alice Pierpont lay next to him, her head on his shoulder and the hollow of his neck.  She appeared to be dozing, a contented smile on her face.  Josh trembled, aware that her teeth were much closer to his throat than he liked them.   

                He tried to shift as much as he was able and discovered something else troubling; he didn't think either of them was dressed.  Her body was pressed against his.  She was warm and soft, yes.  She didn't seem to want to hurt him.  That was good.  Her eyes opened lazily and she smiled at him.  

                "Hi," she said softly.  

                Josh swallowed nervously.  "Hi," he said.  "What…what happened?"  

                Alice smiled a satisfied smile.  "What do you think?" she asked.   

                He found himself trembling.  "Look," he said.  "Do you…um…are you going to keep me locked up here forever?"  

                Alice considered it for a moment.  "Not _forever," _she said.  "For now I have to because you'll still try to escape.  Eventually you'll accept that we're meant to be together."

                Josh closed his eyes and pondered.  She sounded perfectly calm about it, as if she'd already decided it was the case and it warranted no further discussion.  

                "Well," he said.  "What if we're not meant to be together?"  

A frown crossed her face and she moved closer to him.  "Nonsense," she said.  "You're just confused, Josh."  

                Making her mad would be a bad idea.  He was chained down here, after all.  Plus, there was Clarice to think about.  They still weren't sure _what _had happened when she left last night.  Only that she'd come back very contented.  She'd brought him up here and given him a shot.  From that, he didn't remember much more.  

                If he made her angry, she might not hurt him, but he wasn't as sure that Clarice would escape her wrath.  He couldn't allow that.  As much as it galled him, as much as it scared him – he had to be careful here.  Being macho wasn't worth it if it would get Clarice killed.  

                "Okay," he said calmly.  

                "Besides," Alice said, "today I want to do something fun with you."  Her eyes sparkled.  

                Fun.  Her idea of fun was sawing people's hands off and nailing them to crosses.  Josh didn't think he would like this.  

                "Like what?"  he asked.  

                Alice grinned and grabbed him by the shoulders, bouncing him back and forth playfully.  

                "I want to go to an amusement park!" she said excitedly.  

                Josh swallowed and stared at her uncomprehendingly.  Since when did serial killers want to go to amusement parks?  It seemed awfully pedestrian.  

                "You want to go to an amusement park?" he asked disbelievingly. 

                Alice nodded.  Her eyes lit up.  "Yep," she said.  "You and me, Josh, it'll be _so _much fun and romantic too.  We'll ride the rides and do the roller coasters and eat junk food and play the midway games and it'll be _so much fun._"  

                _And you need to take your meds more often, _Josh thought but dared not say.

                "It's too cold.  It's winter.  They're not open," Josh pointed out.  

                "Not in Florida," she told him.  It was hard to believe she was a killer; she seemed excited and delighted with what she had done.  "I chartered a plane!  It's six now.  We can be down there in two hours.  We'll have the _whole day _there.  Disney World, Universal Studios, whatever.    And we can eat at EPCOT or whatever you want.  Then we fly back at night and boom, we're here!"  

                Josh blinked his eyes for a moment.  This was pretty hard to believe. Was she serious or was this simply manic chatter?    

                She arose from the bed and stared at him, saucy and naked, for a moment.  He couldn't help looking.  She saw this in turn and it pleased her vanity.

                "How could you rent a plane?"  he asked.  

                "It's not that bad.  It's like a thousand dollars," Alice answered, and giggled.    "I'm rich, Josh.  I can afford it."  

                _This isn't fair, _he thought ruefully.  _A beautiful girl is in love with me. She's standing in front of me naked.  She's rich. She's going to fly me to Florida at the drop of a hat.  Why does she have to be insane?_

                "I'm going to take a shower now," she informed him.  "Then you get one.  I'll put Reesey in the TV room.  She'll be OK.  Lots to do, lots of TV, lots of music.  No phone, but I can't give her a phone, now can I?  That would get in the way of our fun.  I got you clothes, too.  Jeans and shorts and a T-shirt and sneakers.  I got the size from the shoes you had.  It'll be _fun!_" 

                Josh's mind reviewed the situation quickly.  Downstairs, Clarice had told him that Alice was bipolar.  She was acting like it now.  But she didn't seem violent.  How the hell did she plan to control him at the park?  All he had to do was get away from her and get to a cop.  If he was quick enough she could be arrested there.   

                No point in betraying his hand now, though.  He would not risk Clarice's life or his own.  He closed his eyes and remembered the few times in his life his father had talked about Francis Dolarhyde.  How Crawford had wanted to stick Dr. Lecter in a VA psychiatric hospital and fake an escape.  At the time, Josh had been young and asked his father if that wasn't lying.  

                _Sometimes you have to trick the bad guy, Josh, _his father had said, blushing.    

                It was sound advice now.  He would trick the bad girl.  Playing along with her for now would be the best course of action.  He heard the rush of the shower and sat back and waited.  She came out dressed in a T-shirt and jeans.  With a pair of sunglasses covering her eyes and a baseball cap covering her hair, she looked startlingly normal.  

                She unlocked him then and let him into the bathroom.  The hot water cascading over him was a relief.  It gave him some ability to think.   He supposed he ought to try and pin her down, arrest her, be the big hero. But that was too simplistic.  She was quite strong, and she had Clarice as her ace in the hole.  If he lost, it wouldn't be only his ass on the line.  Alice seemed to not want to hurt him, but he was not sure she would hold to that.  The thought of Clarice nailed to the cross, or tortured with a blowtorch made him wince.  

                No, for now, he would play along.  He couldn't see any other way.  

                Once he was done with his shower, Alice was waiting.  She held a wide nylon belt in her hand.  

                "Come here," she explained.  

                Josh walked over to her and eyed her curiously.  

                "Clarice is in the TV room.  She's got food and the bathroom and everything she needs.  She's secure but she's comfortable.  If that makes you feel better," Alice said delicately.  

                She placed the belt around his waist.  It clicked shut with a firm _click.  _He could feel metal prongs pressing his kidneys.  The buckle had a lock on it; he would not be taking it off.  After that, Alice gave him clothing: jeans, a shirt, sneakers.  He swallowed.  

                "That's a stun belt around your waist," Alice explained.  "If you try to escape on me I'll have to use it.  But I don't _want _to, Joshie, don't make me.  Pleeeeeaaaase?"  She curled herself into his arms and pressed herself against him.  

                _Oh boy, _Josh thought, _I have a date with an insane serial killer who thinks she's in love with me.  _

Still, she was in a rare good mood as she brought him out to the car and drove to the airport.   Seeing her like this was odd: she was manic, but she was _normal.  _He'd never thought serial killers would want to go to Disney World.   Then again, he'd never thought serial killers would have lives even vaguely like normal people's.   

                True to her word, Alice drove to the airport where a private plane was waiting.  The plane was small, but the seats were comfortable.  Alice plunked herself down next to him companionably.  This was insane, but it was happening.  The plane leaped into the air and landed two hours later in Orlando.  

                It was bright and sunny, and they caught a cab over to Disney World.  Josh found himself trembling, but Alice seemed quite happy.  They caught a few rides at Disney World and then went to Universal Studios in the afternoon, as Alice much preferred the rides there.  

                If you discounted the fact that she was an insane serial killer holding him hostage, Josh thought, this was quite pleasant.  The prongs on the stun belt pressed against his kidneys and reminded him of just how off base this situation was.  But Alice did not threaten him.  She made him accompany her on the rides; she made him stop at a picture studio, where they got a picture of themselves in old-fashioned clothes, and she made him win her a stuffed animal on the midway.   Never once did she remind him that she could incapacitate him with the press of a button.  

                They ate at EPCOT center.  She wanted sushi and wanted him to try it.  It wasn't bad, he thought.  After dinner, she told him, they would catch a cab back to the airport and fly home.  When he thought about it, Clarice hadn't had it that rough either. Twelve hours or so locked in the TV room.  If she had food and bathroom access, that sort of captivity would be easily tolerable.  

                He wasn't ready to resist her yet.  If he gambled and lost, Clarice would pay the price.  But he still felt vaguely cowardly about that.  His father had fought Hannibal Lecter and Francis Dolarhyde; he was outmatched by Alice Pierpont.  It wasn't macho and he didn't care for it. To assuage himself, he did what he was trained to do: to profile.  

                She seemed to want him to have a good time, he thought.  She didn't threaten him.  That wasn't like most sociopaths; they could be unbelievably petty.  She seemed to understand that she had to restrain both him and Clarice.  All the same, she seemed to have _some _concern for them.  The conclusion was obvious:  in some sort of demented way, she wanted them to like her.  And in his case, she wanted more.  She wanted to act like his girlfriend and did.  If it was an act, it was damn good.  She seemed quite happy with the situation and honestly wanted him to be happy too, stun belt or no stun belt.  It struck him as bizarre, but somehow tragic.  It made her human.   

                Josh Graham was not a Christian.  His father had never been religious.  But there was one phrase that occurred to him from the Bible that inspired him here, in this bizarre fun-park captivity.  He closed his eyes and thought it now.  

                _Be as simple as doves and wily as serpents.  _

_                That's what I have to do for now, _Josh thought.  _Be a dove.  But once this belt comes off me, you'll see what a serpent I can be.  _

 …

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was thinking.

                He had never once believed that he might be a father.  It had been something he had never seriously questioned.  He'd never had reason to.  He had been a bit of the playboy, to be sure.  But that had been twenty years ago.  He'd been incarcerated for eight years.  Then, for more than a decade, he had lived quietly and free far from American borders.   Only his brief return for the Verger affair had interrupted that.  

                He had no children.  The idea was ridiculous.  He never, never would have thought it possible.  But yet the Six Fingered Killer had a resemblance to him that he could not ignore.  To begin with, there was the six-fingered left hand.  If the girl in the hotel was the Six Fingered Killer, then she resembled him in other ways – the same dark hair, the same pale skin. Even the terrible picture in the videocamera made that clear.  A hotel's black-and-white security camera could easily confuse maroon eyes for brown or black.  

                The answer was not proven, to be sure.  But he could not discount it.  

                It would be easy enough to check out.  Dr. Lecter settled in with his paper and thought.  If he _had _an unknown daughter, there were only a few women who could have borne her.   He'd been a bit of a playboy then, but not _that _much of one.  

                Rachel DuBerry was a possibility.  He doubted it would be her, though.  They had called their relationship off two years before his incarceration.  Had he sired a child on her, he would have known about it beforehand.  For her, he thought, he would have likely done the honorable thing.  

                No, if it was anyone, it was either Marianne van Brint or Jane Pierpont.  Of the two, it was likelier that it would be Jane; he'd dated her later.  Still, his relationship with Miss Van Brint had come to an end six months before his incarceration.  She was possible.  Dr. Lecter shuddered, remembering how petty and cruel she had been.  

                _Whatever **was **I thinking? _he wondered.  No matter.  He was entitled to his youthful indiscretions as was any other man.  

                Yet it would be easy to find out.  Dr. Lecter picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory quickly.  He didn't know if either woman had changed her number – after all, it had been more than twenty years.  He tried Marianne first.  Like most of the women he had dated, she had married well in the interim.  Her last name was Corleigh now.  Her secretary answered.

                "Good morning," Dr. Lecter said courteously.  "This is Gregory Baxter from the _Baltimore Sun.  _I'm doing an article on mothers and daughters who have been on our society pages."  

                The secretary seemed a bit nonplussed.  

                "I'd be glad to help you, Mr. Baxter," she said smoothly.  "Mrs. Corleigh doesn't like to have her daughter in pictures, though.  She believes she is too young for that."  

                "I see," Dr. Lecter said, the soul of politeness.  "Would it be presuming to ask how old she is?"  

                "Not at all.  Natalie is thirteen."  

                _No, _Dr. Lecter thought.  "I don't mean to be rude, so I must ask your pardon," he said ruefully.  "I'm operating off a list I received with just some names.  Is that Mrs. Corleigh's only daughter?"  

                "No offense at all," the secretary said.  "Yes.  That's her only daughter."  

                "Thank you so much," Dr. Lecter said calmly.  

                He thought he knew what the answer was, but he would make sure.  A quick call to Jane Morgan's secretary clinched the deal.  Dr. Lecter repeated the same story.  This time, the secretary was much more tense.  

                "I'm sorry, there's been a family tragedy right now," the secretary told him.  "Mrs. Morgan is not available to come to the phone right now."  

                "I just wanted to ask about her daughter," Dr. Lecter said.  

                The secretary sucked in breath.  Dr. Lecter tilted his head and felt his curiosity engage.  

                "Mrs. Morgan's daughter…has removed herself from the family at the current time," the secretary said frostily.  

                "I see.  Do you have a telephone number for her, perhaps?"  

                "I'm sorry, I don't.  Mrs. Morgan does not maintain contact with her daughter currently.  She feels quite bad about it, but Alice has made her choice, and Mrs. Morgan will regretfully respect it until such time as Alice is ready to rebuild the relationship."   

                The speech had the feel of rote memorization.   Dr. Lecter did not believe a word of it, except for two things.  First off, that Jane did not maintain contact with her daughter.  And secondly, that her –and _his – _daughter's name was Alice.  

                "I see.  I'm awfully sorry things have come to that.  Could you tell me how old Alice is?" he asked calmly.  

                "Certainly. She's twenty-one."  

                Dr. Lecter pursed his lips and nodded.  Of course.  Presumably, it was the last night he and Jane had spent together.  Idly he wondered when her birthday was.  

                _I have a daughter, _Dr. Lecter thought.  

                He had never known.  For some reason, that piqued him.  Just as Mischa had been taken away from him, so had his daughter.  He had never been able to watch any of the milestones of her life.  All of it taken away from him.  Jane had never told him.  He had a daughter, and her name was Alice.  He allowed the name to echo in his mind.  

                But from the looks of the paper Jane had her own problems.  Across the front page of the _Baltimore Sun _was the headline _Murder at Morgan estate.  _Dr. Lecter scanned it briefly.  Edgar Morgan III, Jane's son, had been arrested for the murder of a young woman at the guesthouse of the mansion.  As a side note, the article noted that he had been on bail for rape charges.  His bail had been revoked and he had been returned to jail to await trial.  

                "The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree," Dr. Lecter mused.  

                But he would not worry about a lady friend from twenty years ago, particularly one as dislikable as Jane.  He was more concerned with the daughter she had borne.  If he found her, he would find Clarice.  

                Dr. Lecter's first attempt to find his daughter in the phone book was unsuccessful, as he had first thought she might have taken her stepfather's name.  There were a few listings for 'Alice Morgan', but one was disconnected and the other two were too old to be his daughter.  

                He tried again, and this time was successful.  There was an 'A. Pierpont' listed in a nice area of Baltimore.  Dr. Lecter took the address down and rose.  

                Better not to tell Will, he thought.  The alliance was clearly uneasy from Will's point of view.  Dr. Lecter was not afraid of Will, but he was all too aware that Will might bring down the FBI on his head once his boy was safe.  

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter put his Harpy in his pocket and glanced outside.  He had a simple Honda outside – nothing terribly fancy, but comfortable and anonymous enough for his purposes.  Night was falling, and he had a trip to Baltimore to make. 

                …

                Will Graham was doing his own thinking.  He'd finally managed to force himself to consider the case like any other.  In order to save Josh, he had to start being a profiler and stop thinking like a father.  _That _was damn near impossible.  

                His uneasy alliance with Dr. Lecter troubled him.  He knew what the doctor was capable of.  Dr. Lecter was a monster, nothing more.  He needed to keep that in mind.  Ultimately, his alliance with the doctor would last only so long as Josh remained in captivity. After that, all bets were off.  And if the doctor got to Josh first…

                Horrible images of atrocities past kept playing in the back of his mind.  A gut-freezing mental movie that he was not able to stop.  Had he known that his son's worst suffering today was the Twilight Zone ride a few states away, he might have been immeasurably comforted.  

                Yet he was hard at work, driven by the need to see his son alive.  He'd gotten Clarice's desk blotter back from the lab.  Sure enough, the names 'Amanda Taylor' and 'Edgar Morgan' had come up.  Crawford had already sent out some agents to find out if Amanda Taylor knew anything.  According to the interview report, she said that Edgar Morgan III had assaulted her a year ago, but she denied going to the police.  

                Will knew better.  He could see it. The Six Fingered Killer had employed Amanda's name as an alias.  That was all.  An alias to get close to Clarice.  An alias that would stand up to scrutiny.  

                But there was something there, too.  The agents who had interviewed Miss Taylor might not think to ask the question.  Crawford might not think to ask it himself.  But Will Graham could, and did.  

 How had the Six Fingered Killer known that Amanda Taylor was a victim of Eddie Morgan?  

                There were two answers: either Amanda had told her or Eddie had told her.  

                Amanda Taylor hadn't said much.  Will was not unsympathetic to the victims, and he thought it might be easier to check out Eddie Morgan.  He'd been in jail, then out on bail, and returned to jail pending the murder.  As Will observed him in the paper, he wondered if he ought to try bracing Eddie or not.  From all views the kid was a perfect snot.  Thank God Josh hadn't ever turned out like that.  

                As it turned out, he didn't need to see another jailed monster.  The jail was more than happy to give him a copy of Eddie Morgan's visitor list.  A simple call got it faxed to him.  He sat in a borrowed office at Quantico, looking it over.  

                _2/12/2002 Morgan, Jane.  Relationship: Mother._

_                2/12/2002 Morgan, Edgar.  Relationship: Father._

_                2/12/2002 Entsfield, Richard.  Relationship: Attorney._

                Those names repeated over and over.  Will scowled.  Was this a dead end?  

                No, wait.  There, five names down from the bottom, was a different name.  

                _1/31/2002 Pierpont, Alice.  Relationship: Sister.  _

"Aha," Will Graham said, and sat up.  His fingers stabbed the computer keyboard rapidly.  To open up a computer link to the Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles was easy even for such an old coot as himself.  A moment later, he had the address.  

Five minutes later, he was on the Baltimore-Washington expressway, heading north.  


	20. Reunion

                Night was falling as Will Graham arrived.  The light was dying swiftly, but there was still enough to see. Will pulled his car to a stop and observed the house calmly.  

The house was big, much bigger and nicer than he'd ever thought a twenty-one-year-old would be able to afford.  Nice area, too.  The kid must've had money from somewhere.  Small surprise, if she was a Morgan kid.  Will parked his car and got out.  The side street was quiet and no one noticed him.  

                Will walked up to the door and paused.  Should he knock?  _Hello, are you the serial killer who has my son?  _But he had no choice.  He didn't have a warrant or anything.  He knocked at the door and waited.  As he did, he glanced around.  The grounds were neatly kept.  

                No one answered the door.  Will paused and stared at the door thoughtfully.  He couldn't bust it down.  He didn't have any proof.  He glanced around the bucolic suburban household and decided it couldn't hurt to try.  He had an FBI ID, and that would justify a look around.  

                A wooden fence barred access to the back yard, but it was unlocked.  Will opened the gate and strolled through, glancing up at the windows.  Nothing.  Just a pleasant house on a wealthy street.  There was a flash of motion at an upstairs window.  Will stopped and backed up in the yard, his shoes silent on the newly mown grass.  

                Yes, there it was.  At one window was a human shape.  When he backed up, it waved its arms frantically as if trying to signal him.  He waved his arms back.  The figure stopped deliberately and then waved its arms again.  Yes, someone in the house was definitely trying to get his attention.  But something was odd here.   Why didn't the figure open the window?  That was puzzling.  

                But it _did _give him a reason to enter the house.    Will crossed around to the front door and looked for a way inside.  The door was locked.  He tried each window in turn and found it locked.  Hmmm.  

                Will crossed back to the back yard, intending to find a window he could break that would go unnoticed for a while.  Long enough for him to get inside and save Josh.  It took him a while, and he found himself concerned that someone would see him and report him as a burglar.  Then again, he thought, how was that supposed to hurt?  What would they do?  He'd seen someone trying to signal him from the house.  Someone was possibly being held captive up there.  Maybe it was Josh.  In any case he would take the chance.  

                He found a window that he was able to get open.  Crawling through the window was a little harder than he expected.  But Will was still strong and flexible.  He pulled himself through.  His shirt rucked up his back and he could feel the skin scrape excruciatingly against the windowframe.  But eventually he was through.  He unfolded his wiry frame and observed his surroundings.  

                It was a kitchen.  Completely ordinary.  Other parts of Alice Pierpont's home would have surprised him:  the impromptu but effective detention facility she had created in her basement, as well as the torture equipment that she had down there.   But her kitchen was perfectly normal.  She had a kitchen table and a few chairs.  There was a microwave and a dishwasher and some pots and pans.  Nothing in the room indicated that a mentally ill serial killer lived here.  There were some dishes stacked in the sink.  The kitchen table had a homey little tablecloth on it.  There were some envelopes on the table and he picked up one.  Yes, this was Alice Pierpont's home.  

                He walked carefully out into the living room and then stopped. On one wall was a large blowup of Dr. Hannibal Lecter's famous mugshot.  It was carefully and expensively matted and framed, and there was even a small spotlight affixed to the floor to illuminate it, as if the doctor was worthy of admiration and exultation.  But that wasn't what made Will freeze.  

                Standing by the portrait was the man himself.  His head tilted as he stared at the picture.  Then he turned and looked at Will.  

                "Filial respect is so _rare _these days," the doctor mused.  

                Will found himself fighting off his first urge, which was to grab the .44 Bulldog clipped to his belt and fire several rounds into Dr. Lecter, center of mass.  He trembled as he watched the other man.  Dr. Lecter, for his part, simply observed him.  

                "So she is your daughter," he observed.  

                "It seems so," Dr. Lecter agreed, and reached into his pocket.  He withdrew a Polaroid photo.  In it was a young woman with a strong resemblance to Dr. Lecter.  She wore a dress and long gloves.  She smiled brightly into the camera.  Next to her, in a chair, was Josh.  He looked slightly nervous and pained.  Will's pulse began to race.  

                "Josh," he muttered.  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  

                "It seems our children are dating," he said, and smiled drolly.  "I hardly ever expected this.  This _is _rather a surprise for me, Will.  I assure you I had no knowledge that I had a daughter."  

                "Have you checked the house?" Will asked, not letting his eyes waver off Dr. Lecter's.  

                Dr. Lecter shook his sleek head.  "Not all of it," he said.  "She has…quite a basement.  The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.  I have not yet located Joshua or Clarice."  

                Will sighed.  

                "Oh, Will, there is one more thing," Dr. Lecter said calmly.  

                "What is that?"  

                Dr. Lecter stepped forward with the grace of a dancer and the speed of a snake.  His left hand flashed up and grabbed Will's lapel.  His right hand came forward into Will's midsection.  At first, Will thought Dr. Lecter had simply punched him in the stomach.  Then he felt warm liquid begin to trickle down his side and he gasped.  The Harpy in Dr. Lecter's hand ripped through his stomach easily.  Dr. Lecter grabbed the pistol from his holster and deftly kicked it under his daughter's coffee table; he had learned from his prior mistake. Will Graham let out a gasp and felt his knees turn to water.  

                "I'm sorry, Will," Dr. Lecter said.  "But I know that where you are, squads of FBI and local police will follow.  I didn't come halfway across the world to be recaptured.  I assure you I'll shan't hurt your boy, should I find him.  But our partnership has to end here."  

                Will Graham grabbed fruitlessly at Dr. Lecter's arm as he slid to the floor.  For his part, Dr. Lecter simply took his cell phone and tossed it away too.  Then he rose and headed upstairs.  

                …

                Josh Graham had played along with his captor, and it had borne fruit.  During the day, Alice had actually seemed happy.  It had given him a certain understanding of her, observing her during the day at the park and then home on the plane.  

                She knew she had to restrain and confine both him and Clarice in order to keep them from escaping.  She understood what she had done.  But on some level, she honestly wanted them to like her, and he couldn't help but shake the feeling that she honestly liked them both.  She'd made some concessions to their comfort while she held them captive.  

                As far as he went, he believed, she knew she had to keep him under control somehow.  Yet she wanted him to play the role of the boyfriend, even though she'd locked a stun belt onto him.   On some level, he thought, she didn't quite get it.  

                He knew better than to try and attack her while the damn thing was on.  It was maddening.  Here he was, at an amusement park.  He should have been able to go to anyone at all for help.  He could have told them that he was being held hostage.  

                But he held his tongue.  He didn't want to get hit with the stun belt.  Nor did he want to take the chance that she might get back to the house before she was caught.  They'd already had a pretty nasty reminder of what happened when she got angry.  So he held his tongue.  For Clarice, he told himself.  It was for Clarice.  

                Now they were back in the car, heading back to her place.  She still hadn't taken the stun belt off him.  He would have to wait until she did. There wasn't much he could do when she could incapacitate him with the touch of a button.  So he waited on the ride home until she pulled in the driveway.  

                Amazingly, she put her arm around him as they approached the door.  He didn't need to be reminded that her other hand was on the remote control.  Just to allay her suspicions a bit, he put his arm around her.  She let out a soft sound of pleasure.  

                She fumbled with her keys for a moment to open the door.  They entered.  Alice eyed him happily and smiled softly.  

                "Now wasn't that fun?" she asked.  

                The smile came to Josh's face easier than he thought.  "It sure was," he said, grinning at her.  "Now how about taking this off me?"  

                "Sure," she said, and gestured for him to lift his shirt.  When he did, she took out a small key and unlocked it.  The stun belt that had been around his waist all day collapsed off him.  She tossed it to the couch as if it was a meaningless trifle.  

                "I ought to let Clarice out," she said.  "She probably wants the bathroom."  

                _That's it, _Josh thought.  _Let her out and then we'll double-team you.  I hope Clarice is quick on the uptake.  _

She tilted her head suddenly and looked alarmed.  A moan came from the living room.  She looked at him curiously.  

                "What was that?" she asked.

                Alice walked into the other room and then stopped.  

                "What the hell?" she asked.  Josh followed her in, curious despite himself.  Was it an armed SWAT team?  He sure hoped it was.  Then he saw, and he stopped, his eyes wide.  

                Will Graham lay on the floor.  A wide, bloody gash marked his stomach.  He looked up helplessly at his son and the woman who held him captive.  Josh turned and stared at his captor, his eyes wide.  

                "You…how could you?" he asked hotly.  "That's my father."  

                Alice squatted and examined the wound.  Then she looked up at him with confusion written on her face.  Her mouth worked.  

                "Josh…Josh, I didn't…I don't know him.  I didn't do it." she said blankly.  She seemed to have no idea how this man had gotten here or what he was doing here.    

                Will Graham stared up at the violent psychotic who squatted over him.  Her pedigree was clearly obvious in her face and the six-fingered hand that probed his wound.  His pulse raced.  He wanted to tell Josh where his gun and his phone were.  

                Alice Pierpont ran to her bathroom and removed a towel.  She had worked in the ER on and off; crisises like these did not bother her.   _This _would show Josh she loved him.  She would save his father.  She could do this.  She pressed the towel down over his wound and gestured to Josh.  

                "Here," she said.  "Hold this down.  Press hard."  

                Josh did not need to be told twice.  He looked at her and his mind spun.  His _father…_down on the ground.  But was she actually going to help him?  Was a woman capable of sawing off a man's hand for her own idle amusement capable of mercy, too?  

                Footsteps echoed from the upstairs hall.  All three of them looked up.  

                Clarice Starling, gaunt and emaciated, walked out to the top of the stairs.  She observed the scene below her with horror.  Next to her, Dr. Hannibal Lecter walked out calmly and tilted his head at his offspring.      

                Alice Pierpont stopped where she stood and stared up at him for a few minutes, her eyes wide.  This was what she had been waiting for.  This was everything she had striven for.  And now he was here.  The resemblance was clear to everyone.  For a long moment, no one spoke.  

                "Josh," she said finally, "that's…_my _father."  


	21. Forefathers and Progeny

                _Author's note:  Been a bit since I updated this fic – I was in the final stretch of 'Shades', and now that one's out of the way.  So here we are – a bit on the short side for me, but ends with a bang._

                For a long moment, no one spoke.  The only sound disturbing the silence was Will Graham's tortured breathing.  Alice stared up at the man on the landing.  He glanced down at her imperiously.  His mien betrayed curiosity without warmth.  

                "Hello, Alice," Dr. Hannibal Lecter said calmly, the first words he had ever spoken to his progeny.  Their eyes met.  Dr. Lecter tilted his head and observed his daughter's coloring and features.  The pale skin and dark hair.  The strange maroon eyes.  On her left hand he noted the extra middle finger that had marked him as different since birth.  

                There was something pleasing in that, he thought, but he was not terribly pleased that his offspring had seen fit to capture and starve Clarice.  Oddly, from what it seemed, Alice had later seen fit to supply Clarice with food.  Well, he would have to qualify that.  She had supplied her with junk food.  Pringles and peanut butter cups.  It was enough to make the good doctor shudder.   Didn't she know what that would _do _to a captive?  

                Alice stood rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on the man on the landing.  

                "You're my father," she whispered.  

                Dr. Lecter nodded once.  "Yes," he said.  He was quite calm.  Despite Clarice's explanation of his daughter's mental illnesses, despite the fact that the FBI was undoubtedly on its way, he was calm.  He controlled Clarice with a simple hand on her arm.  And he did not fear Will's boy, crouched over his father with a panicked look on his face.  The girl who had created all this mayhem seemed transfixed by him.  He had control of the situation.  

                "You're Jane's daughter, I take it?" Dr. Lecter said.   

                Alice's face tightened, but she nodded.  

                "My condolences," he said.  "She must not have been much of a mother."  

                Alice stared at him for several moments before speaking.  Her jaw wobbled.  Even from the landing, he could hear the sounds of her shallow respiration.  It occurred him that she had been waiting all her life for this.   She stared at him as if he was a lost idol recently found. 

"Why didn't you ever see me?" she demanded.  It seemed she had a thousand questions and that was merely the first that had bubbled to the top.  

Dr. Lecter's eyes flicked to the Grahams, then back to her.  She might be armed.  He couldn't tell.  

"I did not know," he explained.  "I was already incarcerated by the time of your birth." 

                "But…," she said. 

                "I assure you, you didn't need to go to these extremes," he said.  He maintained the usual distant demeanor he affected with those who he did not feel like tormenting.  He jerked his head at the Grahams, one atop the other.  Josh held the towel over his father's wound.

                "I…I wanted to meet you…," Alice whispered.  Dr. Lecter watched her eyes moisten.  Odd, that.  She would have to learn control.   Perhaps she had been hoping for something more from him.  "Ever since I knew, I wanted to meet you.  Someone like me."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  "To some degree," he said.  "But we _are _different people.  I dare say if Clarice had been in _my _custody, she'd have been fed better."  

                "I fed her," Alice protested.  Now a tear did slip down her cheek.  Dr. Lecter found this also a bit odd.  She barely knew him; he held none of the psychological reins that a father might normally hold over his daughter.  Yet it seemed he had some sort of control.  That was good; he would need it.  Perhaps she would help with Clarice.    

                "I saw what you fed her," Dr. Lecter said peremptorily.  "Were you trying to kill her by sodium overdose?" 

                Alice took a step towards the landing.  "I don't want to talk about her," she said beseechingly.   "You can _have _her.  I'll give her to you as a present."  Her voice was hushed and choked.   "I just…I just want a father."  

                "All right, then," Dr. Lecter said.  The important thing was escape.  Having Clarice was a welcome bonus.   This was actually not inconvenient.  She wasn't in fighting form and her resistance would be minimal.  Dealing with his troubled offspring could wait.  "Come here, Alice.  For now we must leave this place.  We may talk further in a safer location."  His eyes gleamed.  "Come here, Alice.  We shall talk.  I'm afraid the Grahams have other plans."  He chuckled and shook his head.  "Besides, Alice, he's FBI.  I assure you it won't work out."    

                Alice Pierpont began to walk up the stairs to her father.  She paid no attention at all to Josh and Will behind her.  Will Graham reached up for his son's shirt and pulled him down low.  He felt tingly and weak, as if an invisible membrane was drawing him away from the world.  He set his trembling jaw and forced his dry lips to form words.  

                "Josh," he wheezed.  "There…under the coffee table…my…my g…my gun."  

                Josh's heart raced as he stared down at his father.  Had Alice done this, or Dr. Lecter?  No, wait.  Alice _couldn't _have done it.  She'd been with him all day.  That meant Dr. Lecter had done this deed.  Just as he had before.  

                His eyes slid over to the coffee table.  Under it, he could see the wood-grained butt of the pistol.  But his father needed him there.  He needed to keep the pressure on his father's stomach wound.  If he left his father's side, it might cost his father his life.  

                "Dad, I can't," he hissed.  

                Will nodded towards the gun again.  His face was sheened in sweat and pain wracked his features, but his eyes were clear.  

                "_Go," _he said.  "Now, while they're…," he gestured back at the monsters, father and daughter, staring at each other across the gulf of the stairs.  

                Josh trembled just a bit and steeled himself.  As quickly as he could, he padded from his father's side to the coffee table.  It took just a moment to reach under the table, and then the gun was in his hand.  He stuffed it down against the small of his back after checking it to make sure he wouldn't shoot himself in the butt and then returned to his father's side.  

                Alice was moving up the stairs.  Dr. Lecter was explaining something calmly.  His eyes flitted over Josh.  Josh stared back at him.  Here was the monster that had bedeviled his father since he had been very young. 

                His face was more aged and weathered than Alice's, he thought.  In the doctor he saw something dark and atavistic.    The fine suit, spectacles, and title of MD only camouflaged it, but the man's essential nature was not changed in the least by its trappings.  He was the reflection of human fear, Josh thought.  The vampire, demon, _dybbuk.  _The creature that stood outside human caves at the dawn of time, memorialized in frightened stick drawings on cave walls. 

                The monster.  

                His spawn stood below him, staring up at him.  Was this her quest?  It seemed that all of this had been to draw him near.  Yet Alice struck him as more human than her father.  Why would she want to know his dark influence?  Was what her father was not made clear by what he had done to Josh's own father?  

                If anything, he thought, there was more humanity in Alice than in her father.  She had kidnapped both Clarice and him.  She had caged Clarice and forced herself on him.  Yet in her own demented way, she did seem to care.  She'd tried to make both of them more comfortable.  Her father had chosen to do what he had done; she _did _have the cloud of mental illness clouding her free will.   She was too dangerous to be allowed to roam free, Josh thought, but she was not quite so evil as her father.  

                Those thoughts flashed through Josh's mind in the blink of an eye.  He removed the gun from the back of his waistband.  It was a .44 Special, an ungainly, powerful pistol.  The bullets it was chambered for were powerful and deadly.  This was his father's choice of weapon after having lost his faith in .38s.  A suitable weapon to take up against monsters.  

And he would need to do exactly that.  If Alice made it up the stairs, then she and Dr. Lecter would leave with Clarice.  God only knew what would happen to her then.  

                As an FBI agent, Josh Graham was taught the FBI's philosophy of shooting.  _Once you draw your gun, you have already made the decision to shoot.  When you shoot, shoot to kill.  _

Alice was closer, but Dr. Lecter was more dangerous.  Better to take her down first.  He watched her carefully.  Her back was to him as she began to mount the stairs.  

                Despite himself, he didn't want to _kill _her.  She was dangerous, but perhaps not too dangerous to be allowed to live.  Besides, pumping two bullets into her head while her back was turned struck him as hardly fair.  She'd tried to save his father.  He would let her live for that.  

                He would have to move fast.  Dr. Lecter was inhumanly quick.  Perhaps he should shoot Dr. Lecter first.  No.  Then Alice might get him.  She was unarmed so far as he knew, but she might have something up her sleeve.

                Josh Graham cocked the revolver and stood.  Alice Pierpont, perhaps twenty feet in front of him, was an easy target.  Her back rose huge in the sights.  He pulled the trigger and a great gout of flame emitted from the barrel.  Alice fell face-first onto the stairs, a great red bloom at her shoulder.  But she let out a cry as she fell and moved as she slid to the ground.  She would live, and Josh would allow her to keep her life.

                Time itself seemed to slow down for him.  He had thought there might be fear.  There was none.  He was icy calm as he did what had to be done.  He cocked the revolver again and lifted the barrel.  Alice would be down; he would not fire on her again.  Instead, he aimed the gun at the monster who had tried to kill his father.  

                Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clarice dive for the floor.  Even despite her ordeal, her training held.  That was good, and a grim smile crossed his features.  His field of fire was clear.  Dr. Lecter's face was struck with surprise.  He _knew, _Josh thought.  He knew that today was his dying day.  For him, Josh had no mercy.  Instead, he simply aimed the gun and dismissed Dr. Lecter's face from his consciousness.  His world was the front sight of the pistol and the red silk tie that lay bisected in it.  In his heart he knew it was right; there was no way he could miss.  His bullets would strike the monster's black heart and stop it once and for all. 

                Josh Graham took a breath, checked his aim a final time in a fraction of a second, and squeezed the trigger three times. 


	22. End of Chaos

Author's note:  My, some of you seemed upset by the idea that Josh killed the GD.  Did he?  Read on and see.

                For a long moment, there was silence.  The only sound in Josh's ears was the ringing from the reports of the gun.  No one moved.  No one spoke.  

                Then Alice Pierpont let out a groan from where she lay on the stairs.  Josh trained the revolver on her with trembling hands.  Clarice Starling arose shakily from her position atop the landing.  Will Graham let out a moan of his own and reached for something.  

                Josh looked up at Clarice.  His young face was set and determined.  He had done this; now it was time to carry this through.  His father was wounded; Clarice was unarmed and starved.  He would have to command.  

                "Clarice, c'mon down here," he said.  "I need you."  

                Clarice eyed him for a moment, and he was struck how gaunt she looked.  She seemed to have a regretful look on her face.  Didn't she realize he'd had no choice other than to shoot Dr. Lecter?  There was no other option.  There had been two monsters he had to deal with.  

                "But, Dr. Lecter,--," she started.        

                "Dr. Lecter's down.  He's not going anywhere," Josh said.  "I have a wounded suspect down here and a wounded agent."  His throat quavered.  _My dad has been stabbed, get down here, _was what he wanted to say.  _Forget about that monster up there.  _

Clarice glanced down the hall in which Dr. Lecter had fallen.  She let out a sigh and began walking down the staircase.  Josh found himself wondering if her face was hard with grief or shock.  She seemed distressed.  Then again, after what she had been through, it was completely understandable.  

                Calmly, Clarice descended the stairs and then examined her former captor, lying face down on the stairs.  She clamped her eyes shut, swallowed, and checked Will.  Will's belt held handcuffs, and she took them from him and fastened them onto Alice's wrists.  Alice did not struggle.  She let Clarice manacle her and seemed meek and defeated.  That didn't surprise Josh; she was wounded and he had the gun, after all.  

                When Clarice spoke, her voice was dusty.  "Alice Pierpont, you are under arrest.  You have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney, and to have that attorney present during questioning.  If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you at no cost.  Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?"  

                Alice nodded.  Her eyes burned up at Josh.  

                "Yes," she said.  Then, she closed her eyes and looked away.  "He shot my father."  

                "I know," Clarice said, and from the tone of her voice her emotions on the issue seemed to parallel Alice's.  

                "All I wanted was to meet him," Alice said plaintively.  

                Clarice nodded.  "I know," she said.  "Look.  We'll take you to the hospital now.  You behave yourself and things will be OK." 

                Josh was satisfied that Clarice could handle things here and bounded up the stairs.   The grip of his father's gun was slippery in his hand as he walked up onto the landing.  His footsteps echoed against the wood.  

                It seemed that Dr. Lecter had tried to duck around a corner into the hall even as Josh had fired at him.  There were three bullet holes in the wall, one marked with a splotch of blood.  Josh tensed.  Had he killed the monster or just wounded him?  

                His pulse raced.  His tongue felt dry.  Moving around the corner took a greater act of will than he thought.  It was dark.  But he knew his duty, and he forced himself to round the corner.  The muzzle of the revolver swung back and forth smoothly. 

                There was nothing there.  

                Josh proceeded down the hall.  His eyes were wide.  The gun jittered in his grip.  His hand was cramping and the checkering on the grip pressed into his palms.   He took a moment to wipe his hands and tried to make his palms stop sweating.  Blood pounded in his ears.  

                On one side, Alice's bedroom.  He knew this one.  Too well for his liking.  His shoes were silent on the carpet as he slipped inside.  Alice's bed, dresser, bathroom.  Nothing menacing there.  No Dr. Lecter.  He worked his tongue to try and wet it a bit and proceeded back into the hall.  

                A spare bedroom.  Again, no doctor; only anonymous furnishings. He checked the room again and returned to the hall.  The darkness burned his eyes as he sought out his prey.  There, on the floor.  A drop of blood lay dark and small on the floor as proof that Dr. Lecter had passed here.  

                Josh proceeded to the end of the hallway.  A window let in light and he had to squint.  The window was closed and locked.  He doubted that Dr. Lecter had gone through the window.  

                No, he had used the servants' stairs, it seemed.  Josh's feet thundered on the risers.   The stairs were unvarnished wood and noisy.  How come Clarice hadn't heard it?  Perhaps Alice had done worse to her than he had thought.  But _she _was under control.  It was her father that he needed to hunt.

                At the base of the stairs, Josh swiftly covered the available area, waving the pistol back and forth in a tight arc.  No Dr. Lecter.  But there was another splotch on his blood trail.  Josh's lips skinned back from his teeth in a savage grin.  

                This appeared to be a simple back room.  Alice hadn't bothered to put furniture in here.  From the looks of things she hadn't painted here either.  The room looked old.  But on the other side of the room was an open door.  A breeze from outside blew loose snow inside.  

                Josh's eyes bugged as he realized what had happened.  He charged outside into the cold night.  The snow was up to his ankles and fell into his shoes, chilling his feet.  He stumbled a few times but pressed on, following the rough footprints in the snow.  Every now and then there was a bright crimson splotch of blood, shockingly visible against the dark snow.  

                The footprints ran out to the driveway.  Josh pursued them.  Snowflakes stung his face as he ran. At the end of the driveway, there was…nothing.  Just nothing.  A driveway, his dad's car…and nothing else at all. Under the windshield wiper of his father's car was a piece of paper.  Josh approached it and felt snow sting his eyes.  

                It was just a sheet of notepaper.  Nothing terribly exciting.  Except the words on it filled Josh with anger and disappointment and fear.  Machinelike copperplate marched across the paper.  Even wounded, Dr. Lecter's writing was inhumanly neat.

                _Dear Agent Graham,  _

_                You're good – almost as good as your daddy.  But there's still a bit of blood in the old man yet. Do mind your manners with my daughter – after all, fathers can be notoriously protective.  I'm new to that, but I can learn._

_                Hannibal Lecter, MD _

                Josh Graham's head whipped back and forth.  He could see nothing on either side of the street.  He slumped.  

                Dr. Lecter had gotten away.  

                "How?" he hissed to himself.  "I hit the bastard!  I know I did!"  

                But he knew the answer himself, and the snow and the wind offered him no further answers.  He might have hit the doctor somewhere that didn't kill him.  Only one bullet might have struck.  He simply didn't know and wouldn't know.  

                Perhaps Hannibal Lecter's body would be found.  Perhaps he would get away.  But there would be no final answers, not here and not now.  Josh had no idea where the doctor had gone.  

                But he had one monster, and they could track the other.  Josh walked back into the house and to his father and partner.  Will was still lying down, his hands pressed to the towel covering his wound.  Alice had moved – or been moved – off the stairs so she was lying on the floor.  Her face was turned to the side and she saw him as he came in.  

                "Josh, I'm sorry," she said plaintively.  "I just wanted…I just wanted to meet my father."  

                Josh exhaled.  "Not for now," he said finally. 

                Clarice stood over her, combination guard and protector.  She moved to intercept him as if he might take his failure out on Alice.  He simply eyed her and felt very tired. 

                "Lecter got away," he said.  "He left a note on Dad's car.  All we got is her."  

                Clarice nodded, and a shadow of what might have been relief flickered over her face.  

                "Okay," she said.  "I called the cavalry.  They'll be here shortly.  I got ambulances for Will and Alice.  They'll both make it."  

                Josh nodded.  

                "So all this is over," he mused.  

                Another shadow flitted over Clarice's face.  Josh wondered for a moment what it was.  He felt no emotions for the woman handcuffed on the floor, other than basic sympathy.  She was a wounded suspect.  She'd get treatment, then her trial.  That was what FBI agents did with the criminals they arrested.  Surely Clarice felt the same.  Didn't she?  

                In the distance, sirens began to wail.

                "What happens now?" Alice asked.  

                Josh shrugged.  "They'll take you to the hospital and treat you there," he said.  "After that, you're under arrest.  You'll get an attorney, and all that."  

                "Then what?" she asked, and scootched on the rug to better see him.  "Will I ever see you again?"  

                The question was so plaintive and so pathetic Josh did not know how to respond.  Alice Pierpont, who had tortured and murdered, who was facing a trial in which she would likely end up imprisoned for life one way or the other, seemed to care mostly about whether or not she saw him again.  He didn't know whether it made her simply completely insane or human or both.   

                "I don't know," he said simply. 

                Then there were vans and cars pulling up outside the house.  Red lights danced in the windows.  Men in uniforms and nylon jackets entered.  Some bore stretchers, some carried pistols.  It was a maelstrom of sanity and order, coming to restore what Alice had set asunder.  He let them whisk away first his father and Alice.  Clarice was taken next, off to a hospital to be checked out after her captivity.  And finally they took Josh away, too. 

                


	23. Connections

The antiseptic smell of the hospital bothered Josh's nostrils, but he was still glad to be here.  The plastic chair in the hospital was not comfortable.  His back hurt.  He'd been here for hours.  A change of clothes would be most welcome at this point; he'd been wearing the same clothes for two days.  But still, he was happy to be here.  

Will Graham lay in the bed, looking up at his son calmly.  Bandages marked where Dr. Lecter had gutted him.  Twice now Dr. Lecter had tried to kill him, and twice skilled surgeons had put together what the psychiatrist had set asunder.   He was badly wounded, but he would live.  

The door opened with a quiet _snick _and a creak of hinges.  Josh turned.  His face brightened to see Clarice Starling standing in the doorway.  Her face still looked gaunt and somewhat haggard, but a night in the hospital and Ardelia Mapp's jerk chicken had done a great deal to restore her spirits.  She smiled calmly at him and then over at Will.  

"Hey, partner," she said softly. 

Josh grinned and glanced down nervously.  "How're you doing?" he asked.  

Clarice shrugged.  "I'm all right," she said.  "A lot better after a few good meals.  How's your dad?"  

Will sat up and observed Clarice with his wintry blue eyes.  "Don't talk about me like I'm dead, you young whippersnappers," he quipped.  The plastic mattress crackled as he tried to sit up.  Josh scowled at his father.  

"Dad," he admonished.  "Your bed raises and lowers itself.  You don't need to do it."  

Will observed his son with a grin.   "God forbid I do anything myself," he said.  Then he glanced over at Clarice.  

"Anything from the office to tell us about?" he asked.  

Clarice nodded.  Her face seemed a bit pinched.  "They've been searching her house," she said.  "We found the torture chamber in the basement, pictures of Dr. Lecter, her weapons, and all that easy.  They're going through the journals now.  Some of it's pretty sad.  I don't know if she's legally insane or not, but she was definitely pretty ill.  Some of it is perfectly normal.  Some of it is positively deranged.  And some of it…well, it's sad.  I couldn't help but feel sorry for her."  

Josh thought of all the horrible things Alice had done.  She'd held both of them captive.  She'd tortured and killed without much compunction.  She'd kept Clarice caged in her basement, for God's sake.  Yet still, he could see it.  Somehow, on some level, she'd wanted them to like her.  Keeping them captive had somehow made her more human.  

"What are they going to do to her?" he asked.  

Clarice shrugged.  "She's in jail right now," she said.  "The judge will almost assuredly order psychological tests, so they may send her to a psychiatric hospital for that.  After that, it's up to the attorneys.  The state will argue that she was sane; her defense attorneys will argue that she wasn't."  Her voice dropped a bit.  "I'm just glad everyone's all right."  

Will smiled at her. "All right," he grumbled good-naturedly.  "I damn near got gutted and you think I'm all right."  

Clarice smiled softly.  "You're going to be all right," she said.  "Gonna live to fight another day, Will."  

Will snorted playfully.  "Fight, yeah, right.  I'm going back to my boat-motor shop.  There the worst thing that can happen to me is that I cut my hand with a screwdriver or something."  His eyes fell on Josh.  "Maybe you want to come with me," he said.  

Josh thought.  After this entire ordeal – being held as Alice's captive boy-toy, having to watch Clarice in a cage – the idea was tempting.   Even so, this was what he had become an FBI agent to do.  

He shook his head.  "Maybe later," he said calmly.  "But there are still killers to catch, Dad.  This is something I have to do."  

Will Graham nodded and smiled.  "I know," he said.  "I'm proud of you, Josh."  

Josh smiled but found himself feeling somehow unworthy.  He hadn't really been a hero.  He'd been kidnapped rather easily.  He hadn't saved the girl.  He hadn't even gotten the bad guy; Dr. Lecter had vanished into thin air.  They'd been checking hotels in the area and found nothing.  They'd thought he might try to free his daughter.  Instead, there had been nothing.  

Even so, they would find him eventually.  For now, everyone was alive, and that was enough. 

…

The jail was noisy, Dr. Lecter thought.  His papers were excellently forged and served perfectly well to get him where he needed to be.  He knew this was a risk, but he simply had to take this chance.  Just as he had been unable to abandon Clarice when she needed him, he could not simply leave his daughter.  

He could not free her, though.  Her acts had made the _Tattler's _front page.  Of course, they were unable to resist the temptation of Hannibal Lecter's unknown daughter committing crimes akin to his own.  The decent media had been less hysterical but no less copious in their coverage.   No, his daughter would need to wait a bit.  

Besides, he was not at his physical peak.  Two of Josh Graham's bullets had struck him, and he had been obliged to remove them himself.  His right arm was essentially non-functional.  Only painkillers and his own iron will enabled him to go without a sling. Yet he would not abandon his daughter to the harshness of the legal system.  So he presented his paperwork to the guard on duty.  

                "Good morning," he said courteously.  "My name is Dr. Henry Martin.  I've been assigned by the court to evaluate Alice Pierpont for competency.  May I see her, please?"  

                The guard looked up at him, examined the papers Dr. Lecter had forged himself from the appropriate forms on the Maryland State Bar Association's website, and glanced down.  He saw the fine suit and tie and ignored the man inside it.  

                "Okay, doc," he said.  "Have a seat.  We'll bring her into the interview room."  

                It took perhaps fifteen minutes.  Dr. Lecter sat down and closed his eyes.  He found himself wondering about her.  They were tied by blood and that was all.  He had never seen her take her first steps or say her first word.  Jane had withheld knowledge of her existence from him.  When he'd escaped from custody, she would have been seven or eight.  When he'd returned to the United States from Florence, she would have been fourteen or fifteen.  

                This would take time.  According to the _Tattler, _she had been mute since her arrest.  That was good.  Dr. Lecter would also urge her to stay off her medications; it would make an insanity verdict easier to obtain.  In the end, once things had calmed down, it would be immeasurably easier to get her out of an insane asylum than a maximum-security prison.  Dr. Lecter had kept up on psychiatry and psychiatric practice.  Much had changed since he had been incarcerated.  The restraints that had been a part of his daily life for eight years in the asylum were a thing of the past now.  Patients were given more freedoms.  That was a comfort to the doctor; if he were ever re-apprehended, escape from a psychiatric hospital now would be a simple matter indeed.  

                The guard called him over to the interview room.  It was a small, bare room with a table and two chairs.  Blank concrete walls confined him.  There was only one door into the room.  Dr. Lecter noticed that the chairs were bolted to the floor, and that Alice's chair had its back against the wall.  That was good; at least it was in line with proper psychiatric practice.  

                Two guards appeared at the door, Alice Pierpont standing in between them with her hands cuffed behind her back.  She wore an orange jail jumpsuit and cloth step-in sneakers.  Her face was blank and her hair dirty.  Whether or not this was because Alice did not have access to shampoo or because she was depressed Dr. Lecter did not know.  Her eyes looked dead.  When she saw him, she saw immediately through the dyed hair and contact lenses.  Her eyes widened and seemed to come to life, but she did not speak.  

                "Thank you for bringing her," Dr. Lecter said to the guards.  "I'll need an hour, in privacy.  Please remove the handcuffs."  

                One of the guards looked at him askance.  "She's violent, doc."  

                "I presume you'll be right outside, no?" Dr. Lecter said. 

                The guard shrugged and nodded.  

                "It'll be all right.  Please wait outside; if she becomes violent we'll handle it then.  Let's give her the benefit of the doubt, hmmm?"  

                "Okay," the guard said.  His tone indicated he thought the psychiatrist was crazy.  He did not know he was hardly alone in that opinion; after all, the Baltimore County Court had agreed.  But he removed the shackles from Alice's wrists.  He pointed at the empty chair.  

                "Siddown," he told Alice.  "Don't try anything.  Just siddown and mind your manners."  

                Alice looked at him like a frightened child and sat down, hunching over.  She seemed quite small in the chair. The door slammed shut with a bang.  Father and daughter looked at it, then at each other.  

                "Hello, Alice," Dr. Lecter said calmly.  

                She stared at him and said nothing.  

                "I've come here to help you," he said politely, and smiled.  "You may talk to me," he continued.  "The guards are not listening.  What you tell me is confidential."  

                She wet her lips and stared at him.  Was she in worse shape than he thought?  Then her lips parted and she spoke.  

                "You came back for me," she said.  

                Dr. Lecter let out a sigh.  "I came here to help you," he said.  "I cannot free you.  Not now.  This jail is too secure, and I'm not in shape to physically overpower anyone."  He indicated his arm.  "I'm afraid your boyfriend caused me some damage.  Nothing that won't heal…but I can't do it now."  

                She considered that and nodded silently.  

                "Has anyone been in to visit you?"  

                She shook her head.  "Mother is angry that I've shamed the family," she said aimlessly.  "But I think she's happy.  She wants me here."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  "Jane is hateful," he said.  "That is how she is.  Ultimately she is not terribly different from you.  The difference is that you don't seem to have the same hate she does."  

                "She's angry about Eddie," Alice said.  

                Dr. Lecter smiled.  "Your work?"  

                Alice nodded.  

                "That's my girl.  Tell me, do you think he'll get off?"  

                She shrugged.  "I did everything I could," she said.  "The evidence is there.  Up to a jury, I guess.  Same as in my case.  Am I going to go to jail for the rest of my life?"  

                Dr. Lecter paused.  "They may sentence you to that," he agreed.  "I hope they don't.  Even so, I shall not forsake you.  I did not know you existed; by the time you were born I was already incarcerated."  

                She nodded and stared off into space.  "I miss Josh," she said sadly.  

                _You've also been missing your medications, _Dr. Lecter thought.  "I can sympathize," he said, and his calm veneer seemed to crack a bit.  "It is painful to want someone whom you can never have.  But Alice, you have larger problems right now."  

                He leaned forward and put his hand on his daughter's.  This was the best he could do for her, right now.  Perhaps she would learn from his mistakes.  

                "Have you spoken since your arrest?" he asked.  

                She shook her head.  "You're the first," she said.  

                He nodded.  "Good," he said, and grinned.  "Listen to me.  Do not speak to anyone else.  Period.  Do they allow you to have pens?"  

                "Soft-tip markers," she said.  

                He nodded.  That had not changed.  All the better.  

                "Take the pens.  Draw eyes on the walls of your cell.  As stylized as possible," Dr. Lecter said.  "If anyone asks what they are for, tell them the eyes protect you.  If anyone asks you open-ended questions, describe the oddest thing you can and become progressively more bizarre.  I'll give you some more examples."  He shuffled papers from his folder and handed them to her.  "Study these, and commit them to memory."

                "What is this for?" Alice asked, seeming interested.  

                "This is the way in which I used to counsel perfectly sane killers into appearing mentally ill," Dr. Lecter said jauntily.  "The idea is to appear insane, so that they will send you to a mental institution.  After that, they would simply do five years in a mental institution instead of life in prison.  Once enough time had passed, they were free to do their deeds again."  

                "Five _years?" _Alice said disbelievingly.  

                "I'm afraid you'll have to spend some time in detention," Dr. Lecter said.  "I don't know if it will be five years or not.  Listen to me, and you _will _be free.  Your first objective is to be found insane, so that you are sent to an asylum rather than a prison.  Once you are there, your second objective is to appear innocent and non-violent.  That is where I made my mistake, Alice.  I attacked a nurse."  

                "You ate her tongue," Alice observed.  

                "I did, yes.  It was a mistake.  Not that I regret doing it; she was rude.  It was a mistake because I could have obtained my freedom much earlier if I had not done so.  Learn from that mistake, Alice.  Be quiet, pleasant, obedient, and non-violent, no matter what.  Eventually, they will come to believe you are harmless, and they'll move you to somewhere less secure.  Once that happens, freedom will be much easier to obtain."                  

                 Alice nodded and set to studying the papers he had given her.  

                "You may find that you are able to free yourself by your own hand," Dr. Lecter explained.  "I shall also make arrangements as I can, once I know where you are being held.  These things _do _take time; expect to spend at least a year in confinement.  You must learn the lay of the land.  Don't try to escape foolishly or rashly.  You must plan it out if you are to succeed."  He quoted an address in Argentina.  "Can you remember that?"  

                "I can remember everything," Alice said.  Her tone sounded more calm and in control.  "Are you…are you really going to help me?"  

                Dr. Lecter smiled.   "Leaving you behind to suffer imprisonment would not be…the polite thing to do.  You _are _my daughter," he said simply.     "That is where I live currently.  I shall also give you an address in Baltimore to write to.  They will forward it to me."  He gave her that address as well.  

                "So what happens now?" she asked, her eyes intent on his.  The same color, he noted.  That was comforting, in a way.  His genes would go on.  He would not be entirely alone.  

                "Pay attention to this, and memorize it," Dr. Lecter explained.  "A skilled psychiatrist can detect an untrained malingerer.  A malingerer trained by a psychiatrist can pass any test.  With luck, they'll find you incompetent to stand trial."  He rose from his chair.  "If they do that, you'll be packed off to an asylum to see if they can restore you to competency.  You'd spend at least a year, perhaps two.  You have excellent attorneys; it will be their job to keep you there and out of a courtroom.  Either you escape on your own or I will find some way to free you yet." 

                For the rest of the time there, he explained what he wanted her to do.  He told her to hide her money and where to hide it.  She would maintain a small amount of her fortune available for victims to make claims against, as well as a small trust fund that she could use to buy what limited things she would be allowed in prison.  She was to maintain her crazed persona at all times while incarcerated, but she was not to be violent.  But eventually the clock ticked down on their hour and that was all.  

                Calmly, Dr. Hannibal Lecter put his hand on his daughter's shoulder.  Her eyes touched his: distrusting but wanting to trust, hard but wanting some softness.  He decided to show some compassion.    "You will need to be strong," he said, and a tone resembling paternal concern entered his voice.  "But this will not end here."  

                The door closed behind him, and Alice Pierpont waited for the guards to enter to bring her back to her cell.  Mutely she allowed them to handcuff her and bring her back to her cell.  She said not a word as they brought her back to the high-security cell that she was quartered in.  When that door slammed shut behind her, she walked to her desk and removed a felt-tip marker from atop the desk. 

                _My father told me to do this, _she thought, and smiled.  _I'll be following in his footsteps.  Except I'll be avoiding his mistakes.  He's going to help me.  _

She uncapped the marker and set about drawing eyes on the walls.   Boy, this was going to creep her out at night.  How was she supposed to sleep with all these eyes looking in at her?  But he was right.  

                 _My father is here for me, _she thought.  Even in the tiny, lonely, cell, that made her smile.  


	24. Saying Goodbye

                _Author's note:  Here we are, the end of the story.  This has been a lot of fun, and we'll be seeing Alice again, I'm sure.  I doubt I'll keep up the two-stories-at-once thing; it's a lot.  But for now, we must see two couples say goodbye…._

                Josh Graham sat at his desk and let out a heavy sigh.  Why did he feel so bad about this?  Surely it wasn't as bad as he thought.  The way the system worked, that was all. 

                Alice Pierpont had apparently undergone a substantial break from reality after her incarceration.  She'd stopped talking the moment she was treated at a local hospital and brought to the jail.  In addition to remaining mute, she had started drawing eyes all over her cell and didn't shower that often.   She would huddle at the back of her cell and sit there for hours.  Occasionally she might comply with orders; other times they had to go in her cell and drag her out in order to make her shower or go for her rec time.

                At the request of the judge handling her case, two psychiatrists had examined her and pronounced her to be floridly schizophrenic and not competent to understand the charges against her or to assist her attorneys in her defense.  They'd tried medicating her and found that she did not respond to it.  At her competency hearing yesterday, the judge had made his decision.  

                _Lecter daughter not competent to stand trial, _blared the headline of the _Baltimore Sun.  _Josh put the paper down on the desk and put his head in his hands.  He scanned the article briefly.  Essentially, it stated the same as the headline.  Alice Pierpont was not competent to stand trial and would be confined in an asylum for the criminally insane until she was restored to competency.  A sidebar article indicated that her brother, Edgar Morgan III, was on trial for murder.  His trial would be held as scheduled. 

                That was how the system worked.  Josh had his suspicions.  

                Alice was mentally ill.  Of that he had no doubt.  But she hadn't shown any symptoms of being schizophrenic or psychotic when she had held him captive.  No, there was something going on here.  

                Josh got up from his desk and walked out of the office.  Clarice saw him as she ducked out of Crawford's office.  He had been concerned about her captivity, but she'd been adjusting fine.  She saw the thoughtful, distant look on his face and did not question him as he went.  He walked down to the elevator and stepped inside.  He could see his distorted reflection in the steel doors.  The elevator hummed as it lifted him to the surface.  

                Still calm and thoughtful, Josh strolled through the halls out to the front doors and then the parking lot.  His Civic waited for him in its space.  His keys jangled as he took them out and unlocked the door.  

                It was bright but cold outside, the light reflecting off the snow and making him squint.  The Civic's steering wheel was cold and stiff in his hands.  He piloted it out of the parking lot, past the gate guard and onto the highway.  His expression did not change.  

                _What the hell am I doing? _

                The exit he wanted wasn't far down the highway.  He pulled off and drove down the side streets for a little bit.  Wasn't too far, really.  The squat, high walls of the jail loomed over the street.  He parked at a parking lot nearby and got out.  His shoes crunched against the snow as he entered the jail and displayed his ID.  His request was somewhat odd.  

                The desk sergeant assumed he wanted to interrogate her and offered to bring her down to an interrogation room.  Josh shook his head and explained that he wanted to see her in her cell.  Normally, this was not permitted, but the jail personnel were impressed by the wizards and warlocks of the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit and so he was allowed to do so.  

                Josh expected to be brought over to the women's cellblock of the jail.  The sergeant surprised him by bringing him down to the basement.  

                "She's in the protective custody wing," the sergeant explained.  "We moved her down there after the judge declared her incompetent.  They'll come for her in a couple of hours. We like to keep the mental cases away from the others.  She hasn't been violent so far.  Actually she seems kind of scared.   But better not to take chances, you know?  And she seems to do better there.  Ever since we put her down there, she's only got a couple things to do and she can deal with it better."  

                Josh's brow furrowed.  "She's not violent?" he asked.  

                The sergeant shook his head.  "Nah," he said dully, as if he had no idea that the woman he was holding had sawn someone's hand off and made another drink Drano.  "She drew eyes all over her cell, so we took away her markers.  After that she sort of huddled in her cell in the corner and cried.  She's not all there, you know?"  

                _She's more there than you think, _Josh thought.  

                As he strode through the clashing iron gates, he found himself wondering.  Alice had seemed to become more human and caring when she had Clarice and him both in her custody.  Was that working the other way, now?  Perhaps it was.  

                Then they rounded a corner in the basement.  Between two barred gates were a single row of six cells.  Each confined its prisoner behind a thick metal door.  The wall was Plexiglass, so that the officers on duty could see their charges inside.  Each cell contained a plastic mattress, a steel sink and toilet combination, and a prisoner.  Nothing moved in the cell except the water.  

                Josh walked past the cells, stealing a glance at the occupants in each.  Some had been put here on suicide watch and were constantly monitored.  He saw a few people sitting on their mattresses and staring up at him.  One was here for punishment and threw himself against the Plexiglass as Josh approached.  His face mashed into a lunatic mess, drool marking the clear window.  He screamed at Josh to let him out of here _now.  _Josh ignored him.  

                Alice Pierpont was in the last cell.  She was sitting cross-legged on her mattress.  In one hand was a piece of typing paper; in the other was a marker.  The sergeant indicated the cell with a wave.  

                "There she is, Agent Graham," the sergeant said.  "She's gonna be transferred to the mental hospital in two hours.  Until then, she's all yours."    He turned to the officer on duty and grinned.  His tone turned from respectful to jocular.  "So John, you gave her back the markers?"  

                "Yep," the officer at the desk said.  "Got tired of her crying.  Told her if she started drawing on the walls we'd come in and take them away again.  She's just been drawing on the paper and I don't have to put up with the racket."  

                Josh ignored them and stood in front of the cell, staring in at the woman inside.  Alice Pierpont looked up from her mattress and tilted her head at him.  For the first time, she seemed to take some interest in something other than the paper she was drawing on.  

                She did not look particularly well.  Her hair was dirty and unkempt.  Her face seemed wan and pinched.  Her eyes seemed catlike and lit with a strange look.  She looked completely insane.  She slid off the mattress and crab-walked to the door.  Josh frowned.  

                "Hi," he said, not sure where to begin.  

                "Josh," she said.  Her voice seemed choked and cracked.  

                "How're you doing?" he asked, and swallowed nervously.  The Plexiglass was thick and he didn't think she could get through it.  But one never knew.  Having Alice Pierpont, who had held him captive and forced him to play her boyfriend, so close to him was nerve-racking.  

                "Hello, Josh," she repeated.  "Hello from the cracks of the bowels of the world and the souls that live in these cracks and the ghosts and the demons that torment the souls who have come to live in these cracks."  

                Josh stared at her soberly.  If this was an act, it was good.  She was crazier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.  

                "Are you doing all right?" he asked.  

                She shook her head.  

                "They said you're not competent to stand trial," he said gently.  "Do you know what that means?"  

                "Do you hate me, Josh?" she asked, ignoring his question.

                "Do I--," 

                "Do you hate me?" her voice was surprisingly clear, if a bit rusty from disuse.  

                Josh swallowed and stared into her mad eyes.  

                "No," he said.  

                Alice turned and scurried back to her mattress and retrieved the sheet of paper she had been drawing on.  She returned to the door and put it in the food slot of her cell.  Then she went back to the mattress and sat on it, looking at him expectantly.  She pulled her knees up to her chin as she waited.  

                Nonplussed, Josh simply sat for a moment before he realized what she wanted.  The food slot door was latched from the outside, so that the prisoners inside could not reach out and grab the unwary.  The latch was sticky from disuse.  Eventually he managed to open it and pull out the paper.  He looked at it for a moment and closed his eyes.  

                "Is this for me?" he asked. 

                Alice nodded and approached the door again.  Josh sighed.  There was something pathetic in it.  Even despite everything, she still didn't quite understand why she couldn't have what she wanted.  But he would accept this final token – all she had.  

                "Thank you," he said, and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket.  

                "I know you don't love me," she said, and her tone sounded remarkably calm and sane.  "I'm sorry.  For everything.  If it means anything."  

                Then she went back to her mattress and lay down on it, watching him through the window.  He sat there for a moment and wondered.  He hadn't really known what he was coming here for.  But now he knew what he had gotten.  

                "Goodbye, Alice," he said, not knowing what else to say.  The sergeant saw him out to the front desk and he found himself pensive and thoughtful again.  There was a bench outside the jail, and he sat down on it and pondered.   Humanity poured in and out of the jail.  Occasionally it was a river of struggling deputies dragging in a fighting arrestee.  More often it was little driplets and droplets of people:  a mother scolding her child after bailing him out, lawyers, cops, and the like.  

                The Six Fingered Killer was in custody.  The end of his first major case.  He doubted there would be any other like it for a while.  If there was, he would join his dad in the boat-motor shop.   All the same, he would still try to brave these waters a little more.  

                Josh sat and thought, and it hardly seemed like two hours when the TV crews arrived.  He didn't realize what it was for until the doors opened and Alice Pierpont walked out of the jail, her hands cuffed to a chain in front of her.  She blinked in the light.  Two officers flanked her, leading her down the steps over to a white van.  Cameras clicked and flashed in the light.  Reporters shouted questions at her.   Josh found himself thinking that exposing a woman of questionable sanity who had already killed people to confusing flashing lights and loud noises wasn't the brightest thing in the world to do, especially when the woman in question had already shown her opinion of the press by barbecuing a _Tattler _reporter.  Still, the officers kept the reporters away from her and got her in the van all right. The sliding door slammed shut and the officers got into the front seats. 

                She turned and looked at him, ghostly behind the window.  Josh gave her a small mile and raised his hand in a wave.  That gesture seemed to comfort her.  She smiled back and relaxed in her seat.  The van's lights turned on overhead and it pulled out into traffic, bearing Alice Pierpont to whatever fate awaited her.  

                Josh watched the throng start to disperse.  After maybe ten minutes, he got up himself and returned to his car.  The trip back to Quantico took no longer than the trip out had been.  

                Back in Behavioral Sciences, Clarice Starling was in the hallway near his office.  She'd thrived and rallied from her own captivity.  She looked at him and her brow furrowed in concern.  

                "Hey, Josh," she said.  "What were you up to?"  

                Josh let out a sigh.  "I went to see her," he admitted.  

                Clarice paused and then nodded slowly.  "How was it?"  

                Josh shrugged.  "She's…not doing well," he said.  "Psychotic but not violent.  She's only got the most tenuous grasp on reality.  If it's phony, it's quite an act.  Fooled two psychiatrists.  And they're sending her somewhere safe, and that's what matters."  

                Clarice nodded.  

                "She gave me this," he said, and smiled.  "I didn't really know what I was expecting from her.  But she said she was sorry and she gave me this."  He reached into his pocket and withdrew the paper she had given him.  

                Clarice took the paper and examined it carefully.  It was a surprisingly good copy of the picture that Alice had made him take at Disney World.  Both of them in old-time clothes, standing next to each other.  It was identical to the photograph and quite detailed, except Josh's smile was more real and less strained.  The way Alice would have preferred it to be.  Clarice closed her eyes and found herself thinking of Dr. Lecter.  Was he dead after all?  No one had heard from him.  

                "It's weird," Josh said.  "I don't think she'd hurt me even if she got out.  She tried to avoid hurting me as much as she could when she had me.  Heck, she even started treating you better when she got me.  But still…she's going to be somewhere.  Thinking of me.  That's…that's spooky."  

                Clarice nodded.  "Oh, I know," she said.  Something passed between them, a silent indication of the burden that Clarice had carried and that Josh was just lifting.  

                "Any word on Dr. Lecter?" he asked. 

                She shook her head.  "The man seems to have evaporated into thin air," she said, and seemed distressed.  "We have no idea if he is alive or dead."  

                "How've you been?" he asked.  "You doing all right?"  

                Clarice smiled sadly and nodded.  "Oh, it's all right," she allowed.  "'Delia's been making me eat double meals.  I'm actually heading out of here now.  There's not much to do now that Alice is in custody.  Take a couple days yourself, Josh.  This is…not the sort of thing you see every day."  

                Josh shrugged.  "Maybe."  

                "I mean it," Clarice said.  "Crawford will let you go now.  Go see your dad.  Go take some time.  It'll be time to hunt soon enough.  Take this time while you can get it."  

                Josh sat down at his desk.  "OK," he said.   "I just have a few things I gotta do."  

                At first, it had been Josh leaving Quantico early.  Now it was Clarice's turn.  The heels of her low work pumps were muted on the carpet and louder in the elevator.  The air outside was brisk and the early afternoon was bright.  The Mustang was cold as she revved the engine and headed out.  

                The duplex was quiet when she arrived.  Ardelia was still at work.  She'd be home in a few more hours.  Clarice opened her side of the duplex and strode purposefully to her living room.  She planned to veg out in front of the TV and just kick back.  Soon enough, Delia would be ready to stuff her full of spicy chicken. 

                She kicked off her shoes and sat down in front of her dark TV.  Tossing her head, she plopped herself down on the couch and groped for the remote.  Something under her crackled.  

                _What the hell, _Clarice Starling thought, and got up.  Under her butt was a fine envelope.  Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the machinelike copperplate spelling out her first name across the middle of the envelope.  Perfectly centered.  There was no doubt whose writing it was. 

                Clarice opened the envelope with trembling fingers.  A letter.  Just like before.  

_Dear Clarice, _

_                By now, you've been free from captivity for almost a week, as your captor begins her captivity.  You may be wondering about her, and how it is that I had a daughter.  The answer is simple:  I did not know that she had been born.  By now, you've doubtlessly put together the pieces and realized that her origins began just after my own incarceration.  _

_                Once I realized that you had been taken captive, Clarice, I came to help.  I had hoped we might have the opportunity to discuss your future.  However, it was not to be, unfortunately, and that young scion of Will Graham made it necessary for me to depart without saying the proper goodbyes.  _

_                On behalf of my troubled daughter, I do apologize for what you have suffered.  Perhaps at some time in the future I may be able to do so in person, but not so long as you man your post over the lambs.  I shall ask you one favor, Clarice, odd though it may seem.  _

_                Though nothing would give me more pleasure than to have you join me, I recognize that you are perhaps not yet ready to make that choice.  Therefore, Clarice, while you guard the lambs from harm, I will ask that you consider adding one more to your flock.  My daughter kidnapped you and held you captive, this is true.  But perhaps you might be willing to watch over her while I cannot.  Free, she preys on the lambs.  Incarcerated, she is one herself.  Might you be willing to check in on her from time to time?  I ask this not for myself, but for her sake.  Her mother is a common sociopath more despicable than any that you may have rounded up.  She is troubled, yes, but she is alone and imprisoned.  A kind hand or word would mean a great deal, both to her and to me.  Can you forgive that far, Clarice?  How far **can **you forgive?  The answer to that question intrigues me more than you would know._

_                Should you ever wish to provide me with the information you still owe me, your means of contacting me has not changed.  I think of you often, Clarice.  _

                _Sincerely, _

_                Hannibal Lecter, MD _

                Clarice frowned and reached over the side of the chair.  Her fingers encountered white cardboard.  Her eyes bulged.  Hannibal Lecter had been _here_?  In her home?  She picked up the box with her left hand and her .45 with her right.  She stood up and stumbled, leaving the box on the chair. 

                A quick, wide-eyed check of the duplex revealed no cannibalistic psychiatrist.  The only sound in the home was her own breathing.  She returned to the couch and examined the box.  

                Soaps, perfumes, lotions, and salves.  Just as before.  Clarice sighed and put her gun back in its holster.  She picked up the letter and scanned it again.  How odd that he expressed concern for the daughter he had never known he had.  

                Clarice's lips pressed against each other.  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.  Seeing him again had been _so _wonderful.  There were things she had wanted to tell him.  Things she had _needed _to tell him.  Doubts that she'd secretly harbored and told no one.  Thoughts that perhaps she would be happier outside of the FBI.  Had Josh Graham not intervened with his father's pistol, things might have been….so very different.  

                But she had to walk the path she was on now.  She considered his request for a few moments.  If she could not follow her heart, she could give him this. 

                "I will, Dr. Lecter," she whispered.  "I'm glad you're safe."  

                FIN


End file.
